


Purgatory

by inertial



Category: B.A.P
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inertial/pseuds/inertial
Summary: He was a freak. I did him a favour by showing him what he truly was. The undeniable fact is that the only reason why I ever thought of him, why I touched him and why I doted on him—not loved—was that he was actually a girl.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction that contains several triggering themes. Reader discretion is advised. This story is about fictional characters unrelated to those associated. Any derived representation of the real people mentioned in this story is entirely false and unfounded. None of the events depicted are real.

It has been a week since I have read the letter. It had stunned me, to be truthful, as I did not expect any of my high school friends to contact me—let alone him. I can barely remember how he looks like right now. Sitting here, I am staring intently at my class photo in the year book to help me recognise him. The book had automatically flipped open to this page, the spine on the verge of snapping right at that particular spot. I am not sure why since I rarely open this yearbook.

Another reason, I suppose, as to why the book had opened up at that particular page, is because there is a hole in it. I can put my finger through it, and I had not noticed I had scratched so hard to the point the five pages after it are damaged as well. I cannot be blamed because I am naturally rough and strong, and just a mere clawing had resulted in such extravagant damage. I guess, I had done it several times, the last I recall being last week. You may wonder why I happened to scratch only at that particular spot, the face initially placed there gone right under my fingertip.

I did this because I was disgusted. You would do so if you were me, too. That boy whose face I had scratched out, the one without a head in the picture, is a faggot, such a revolting scum of the earth. Today, this appalling boy has asked to meet me. 

 _Yoo Youngjae_.

I can barely remember who he is and I can only say his name now because I have looked into the yearbook. In fact, I had completely forgotten about him till I received his letter. Was he in my year? How many classes did we share? Did we go to the same middle school too? Since I have torn out his face from the book, I will not be able to recall how he looks like. He had been such a minuscule, insignifcant part of my life—no, I cannot even call him a part of my life. He is nothing but a pathetic pillow biter and a freak of nature.

Yoo Youngjae is a nancy boy, a twink, a sissy. He was truly,  _truly_  a freak of nature; he had an unnatural face. He was male but he had a repulsively feminine face. His face was small and resembled that of a heart shape. He had a sharp jawline that curved very smoothly at the ends. There was a time in middle school he had been chubby and his fats covered his small, bony chin, which made him a little less disgusting. He had large, doe eyes unlike that of any girl I had come across, and such long, irksome eyelashes. They were very thick, so, absolutely like that of girls—you may think I am exaggerating, but his eyelash had once fallen onto my arm (the thought still makes me nauseous; I feel so much like vomiting right now) and I had, out of a morbid disbelief and curiosity (I was a child, so I could not be blamed for wondering about such freakshows), examined it. He also had a dainty button nose and very pale skin, comparable to that of spring peaches, with a small mole on his left shoulder, bordering on his neck. He had very sickening lips; they were very red, like that of apples and as though he had put on lipstick (I believe he must have, now that I think back). His lower lip was more plump and full than his upper lip, but they were both fleshy and again, shaped like that of a heart. Revolting, absolutely revolting.

Everyone thought that he was disgusting. We all mocked him for his looks; it was not just me who thought he looked too much like a girl. Everyone did; it was not just me. No one wanted to be friends with someone so unnatural; I, we, had doubted many times his true gender. I still strongly hold the firm beliefs that he was actually a girl.

There was a time where I used to be friends with him, before I realised how disgusting he really was. It was regrettable, but at that time, I had been young and naïve, far too ignorant and blind to what he was. I could not be blamed because I was a bit dense and did not notice the signs. It must have been because of how we shockingly we got along (I was very kind and forgiving, I turned a blind eye) that I overlooked how repulsive he was. Let me explain: Yoo Youngjae loved, or rather,  _claimed_  he loved soccer, and I was a soccer fanatic—of course, all guys loved soccer. He liked the same games as me, those that included warfare, and he enjoyed wrestling. He especially liked meat and he spoke his mind, often arguing with people if they disagreed or dared contend. He covered up well so I did not detect, no, I forgivingly ignored his feminine features and his evident girly traits.

I remember he used to get into fights very often, and would end up with his lip battered and bleeding. The first time, it had been towards the right of his lower lip, and it was a nasty gash that took up the width of my thumb. I touched it only because I was intrigued by the blood, and he was still my friend at that time, so I had to patch him up. He would bellow nearly every word and he had a habit of roughly shoving people when he got excited.

We used to barbeque without my parents' permission—his parents were rarely around so he was free to do as he pleased, a reason I attribute to why he progressed into such a freak—and I recall vaguely he ate so much once he choked and almost keeled over. There was also that time where he broke into the rooftop of his apartment complex and we laid there underneath the sky, taking turns shouting crude words and laughing. He had fallen down and twisted his ankle while we scampered down the stairs at the blaring siren from a passing police car, and I had to carry that freak down to his home.

I recall I had praised him for not crying, but upon reflection, there was nothing worth praising for. Any normal guy would not have cried; I definitely would not have, if I were in his place. The fact that he could not walk down himself already indicated he was a weakling. We had a sleepover in our last year of middle school, and (I shared the bed with him because he insisted; I wanted to take the floor) he curled up like a baby when he slept. I had realised he was too pretty for a boy that night—his skin was utterly smooth, like silk, all the way from his calf to his thigh, his cheek too. I should have known he was unnatural, since real boys like me had hair on their legs and our skin was rough. I did not have hair at that age but it was only because I was a late bloomer. I had rough, pimply skin, but he did not, and it should have set off alarm bells for me. But I brushed it all away because I was too naïve.

See, he only  _seemed_  okay—a fool I was back then, I will admit, but it was only back then—until my mother taught me how to recognise these freaks by their subtle nature. A good example would be my disgusting, abhorrent "father". My "father" disguised it well for the first seven years of my life, and I regret not noticing the signs. He was nothing but a fag who lusted after men and left my mother and me for some burly freak who enjoyed trannies like my "father". I feel like vomiting even as I speak about it now. That gay bitch, all he wanted was to be ripped open by men so he left; that gay slut knew no responsibilities and decency. He was such a disgrace to my family, and I have changed my surname just so it would not honour that lowly abomination.

My "father" was not manly, and the signs were always there: my "father" used make-up, he wore tight jeans and he enjoyed dressing up. He acted cute and spoke in such a disgustingly high voice. It hurt my mother a lot. Everyone laughed at her and said she was so little of a woman that she could not even keep my "father" by her side and lost out to a man. These warning signs were made clear to me every day by my mother after my "father" left, as she worried for me. She was afraid I would be influenced by that freak, and she reminded me constantly and stopped me from straying down the wrong path. I joined as many sports teams as I could; I was forbidden from joining my neighbours' daughters whenever they invited me out to play; I was slapped whenever I whined or complained.

Some may say it was bad treatment, like my uncle did, as he threatened to call social services after an episode where my mother had beaten me for crossing my legs while over at our reunion dinner. It happened often. My mother would stand by and scrutinise me, slapping me across the head whenever I did something feminine. I remember once she wrenched my hair when I was asleep, and she forced me to stay still and brought a mirror over so I could see how gay I looked in that fetus position, all disgustingly vulnerable (but that is obviously not the case now). She screamed at me whenever the face I made looked girly and compared me to my friends who were bigger-sized, which was good, since I always make it a point to work out. She sometimes cut my eyelashes and scratched me, which was good as well, since I now have scars all over that tell how rightfully manly I am. It hurt just a bit. However, I think it's exactly this kind of training that all men need.

Men take the lead and bring home the bacon for the family. They are dominant and dependable, and they take care of their women. No woman should feel unsafe with their man in charge. A woman should always be protected by her husband, who, obviously, should only look at women. And I regret more than anything my mother did not practise what she preached and allowed me to hang out with that bitch Youngjae.

Youngjae was nothing but a fraud. He was such a good trickster, with that pretty, doll-like face, and he even scorned the training my mother put me through. He was such a succubus, trying to trick me into thinking it was bad and telling me we should run away together. It was all because of that deceptive cocksucker that I had said those vomit-inducing words to my mother when I was a child. It was not my fault; I have already made it clear how much of a woman Youngjae resembled, and I fell into his revolting trap. It was not my fault; it was only because he looked so much like a girl (and I believe it was also because my mother did not allow me to play with girls, so I could not feel what it was like to crush on a female—and tragically, Youngjae was the closest thing despite being a freak) that I was fooled momentarily. He was pretty. That was undeniable. I was only attracted to him because he looked just like a girl. He could have fooled anyone, really. It was not my fault, see.

It was all just a misunderstanding, but because of that imposter, my mother sent me for therapy and tried to fix my "crush" on that bluffing crook. It was nothing but a misunderstanding and I was not to be blamed. He was a conman and I bet my life he was just like my "father", attempting to assimilate into society when he was in actuality trying to seduce a full man like myself. That disgusting faggot and his trickery. I was only thirteen at that time, so I could not be blamed. I was not one of them, definitely not. Youngjae was of an atrocious species and women suffer because of people like him. My mother did. She had to raise me all on my own because her husband ran off like a repulsive prostitute. Disgusting.

I only deviated towards Youngjae because he looked like a girl and being a hot-blooded boy, I had grappled for whatever I could get. Youngjae was deceiving, so, very deceiving, and I could not be blamed for "liking" him for just that short time. He was nothing but a temporary vessel to vent my sexual frustrations; I can barely even remember how he was back then. Which is why I say he was nothing to me and I had taken a "liking" to him only for his feminine looks. He was pretty, as disgusting as it is to admit it. He was so devious he looked even prettier than many of the girls in our level, the ones he claimed he adored when everyone knew he was actually gay.

I was thankful my mother sent me to a psychologist. I would not have needed it at all but Youngjae was really that deceiving, like a succubus. If you were to see him for yourself, you would understand it was not my fault. He was the one who seduced me; I was only thirteen. The therapy helped me to abandon how kind I was to a freak like him (I was just too kind) and I stopped all contact with him. It was a good thing I realised the error of my ways, brought about by that cheap fraud, and severed ties with Youngjae. My mother drilled it into me good, the screaming and beatings. She would choke me whenever I spaced out, burn me with the candle if I ever said I felt lonely and cane me out of the blue to remind me never to make the same mistake again. I needed it because Youngjae was so devious. I made so many mistakes by crying like a wimp over that witch and I needed a good beating, to get knocked out and wake up locked in the storeroom, for days... days... no food...... beg to be let out...... scrawl on the wall, bloody nails, six days...... Mother wasn't at home when the postman came, I tried to get the delivery...... I could have broken the lock like a man, I could have, I swear...... Please don't lock me in, I could have, I swear......

I mean to say it was all done so I could see through that hellion. It was not my fault, really.

I did not miss Youngjae at all when we parted. How could I miss his devious attempts to contaminate me? He had orchestrated them all. Him coming over to watch television and sneakily forcing me to lie in his lap (I recall I only started doing this because he took up too much space on the couch, clearly on purpose), him purposely tripping whenever we chased one another across the school and making me pounce on him (he would seize this chance to touch me under the guise of trying to shove me off; if he was really a boy, he would have pushed me off successfully and not let me lay on top of him), him saving a seat for me during lunch (obviously, I was his target and he needed to be near me all the time for his black magic to work). I did not miss him. If anything, I felt so liberated. I stayed away without a word and finally got that vixen off my back.

And of course, Youngjae, being sensitive and weak, cried about it. I will admit he did a good job by putting on a facade but despite his screams and punches, he still teared up like a sissy. He almost got me to feel bad by spouting lies about us being each other's closest friend. Almost, but I saw through him. What he really was. Thus, upon realising I knew he was just a dirty little liar, he gave up on me. I remember a whole forty-three days where he did not spare me a single glance. Youngjae was always stubborn and strong-headed, so that little bitch dared to ignore me. But obviously, I did not bother about that freak. I barely even noticed he was gone from my life.

Being a fucking gay slut, a hopeless  _whore_ , Youngjae went to pester another boy. Bang Yongguk was another faggot like Youngjae, therefore they got along well, whereas I could not stand those two freakshows. He was such a ugly fuck yet Youngjae, being the tramp he was, went for him anyway. He would always have an arm around Bang Yongguk and I often felt like puking blood when I saw them laughing with one another. They often played soccer by themselves after school and would leave at around six on Tuesdays, no, wait, Wednesdays, yes, Wednesdays, disgustingly giggling to one another like fucking girls.

I wanted to kill Bang Yongguk. He was just another gay bitch and I wanted to strangle him and bash his head against the wall and claw out his eyeballs and rip his revolting face open. He was so low to mix with Youngjae; he deserved it. He so obviously liked Youngjae sexually. He always waited for Youngjae by the school gates so they could go in together and during recess, he always gave Youngjae his yoghurt. He was clearly gay; he kept touching Youngjae, wrapping his arm around Youngjae's shoulders while walking through the hallways, and they always bathed in the same toilet after their sissy little game of kicking the ball around in the field. That was not soccer. They fucking looked like they were prancing around like goddamn girls. And they always used the excuse of watching our school sports teams' competitions to hug one another, acting as if they were happy over the points scored. 

I gave Youngjae the chance to quietly leave but he did not. That tramp provoked me by opening his legs for just about any boy down the street—there was Im Jaebum, Moon Jongup, Choi Junhong, the three bastards who I had seen around Youngjae most besides Bang Yongguk. I was disgusted the school population had been just as ignorant as I was before I opened my eyes. I needed to enlighten everyone; I had to. These pathetic idiots had no idea who they were dealing with.

And I did so. Youngjae did not know his place, so I put him where he belonged. I remember that day quite vividly—it brings me so much triumph. Those two faggots had been sitting at the end of the canteen and I had not been watching them, I had just glanced over by accident and what they were doing was so revolting I just could not tear my gaze away. That fucking bastard Bang Yongguk had "broken" his right arm, a complete and utter lie. I guess it was somewhat believable since that faggot was weak and pathetic, to break his arm falling off the stairs, how stupid, but it's definite that he had only  _pretended_  to break his arm. Since he always ate with Youngjae during recess, it is obvious he had done it on purpose. He had done it so Youngjae would feed him, that fucking cheater.

Right from the start of recess, I saw that he was pretending like a bitch, acting like he was so helpless in trying to use his chopsticks with his left hand. If he had really broken his arm and could not use chopsticks, he would obviously have not bought noodles to eat. It was so obvious. He was trying to act so revoltingly lovey dovey with Youngjae, like the fucking freak he was. And Youngjae, being a lowly prostitute, ate up the bait just like he would with men. I watched them fight over the chopsticks, the cunning bitch Bang Yongguk acting like he did not want Youngjae to feed him, and Youngjae, of course, won the fight because he was so adamant on whoring himself to Bang Yongguk. He fed him for the entire recess and it was so fucking obvious that slut Bang Yongguk had been slyly aiming for that since he let Youngjae do it. I wanted to hurl so badly. I wanted to punch Bang Yongguk over and over again, break his nose, break his other arm, break his neck and let him bleed out all over the floor. Because it was disgusting. If Youngjae had any fucking decency, any sense, any morals, he would not have so loosely just fed Bang Yongguk like that. It only served to prove my point. He was just a gay whore.

I was doing everyone a favour when I got up to do something about that repulsive sight. No one should have to endure something like this. That Bang Yongguk was lucky and a teacher had came up to pull him aside, and so, I could only teach Youngjae a lesson. I followed that slut out and when I caught up to him, I spun him around and punched him in his unnatural, twisted face. He fell and I pinned him down, and I felt so much thrill to have finally beaten up this freak of nature that pranced around the hallways so freely, like he had the right to walk this place like all of us did. It felt so good to hold him down, our faces so close (I was staring him in the eyes, staring him down, I mean; it felt good because I was so intimidating), our skin touching (I was basically pressing him into the concrete; it felt good because I showed how strong I was), him finally looking at me after so long (it felt good because this tranny, this lowly kid  _dared_  to ignore me and I set him right).

I called him a faggot in front of everyone. I mocked him for feeding Bang Yongguk like a sissy boy, trying to act like his girlfriend, which he had shamelessly been doing. Youngjae put up a good struggle but I was obviously stronger, being the real man. It was only because I was lenient that I let him kick me in the stomach, and I released him. He screamed at me, like the gay bitch he was, and I saw that he had gotten slimmer—his jawline was more prominent and emphasised his gross heart-shaped face even more. It was evidently so that he could look more attractive to Bang Yongguk. This slut did not know an end to his disgusting ventures and had absolutely no shame.

That day, I realised Youngjae  _needed_  to be taught a lesson. I could not just let a freakshow like him run around and contaminate a place where I spent so much time in. So many innocent people were in contact with him and they stupidly did not know who they were dealing with. I needed to teach Youngjae a lesson. I was the only one who knew and I was the one who had to set everything right.

So I did. Every day, whenever I passed by that faggot who dared stare at Bang Yongguk instead of me, I would call him a tranny in front of everyone and bring attention to just how feminine he was. I would laugh and say he would never get married to a woman since it would be just like two girls getting married. During our shared gym classes, I would fling the ball at him (that faggot was always ignoring me) and mock him for being so weak without his boyfriend Bang Yongguk around. The first few times, we fought, and god, it felt so good to touch him. To overpower him, is my meaning, for it set that pillow biter straight. Afterwards, he just took to ignoring me, like the timid bitch he truly was. Even in the hallways, where I threw my trash at him, he would not bat an eyelid, acting all high and mighty, even when fucking Bang Yongguk wanted to start a fight with me. Youngjae would disgustingly put a hand over Bang Yongguk's arm, he would touch him, hold him, seizing the opportunity to grope him under the guise of telling him to hold back.

It took months before those idiots finally realised just how much of a disgusting fraud Youngjae was. They were enlightened, and they started treating him the way he deserved to be treated. Youngjae's friends slowly left him, as expected, and I did not feel bad when students would spit at him and kick him. I was always reminded to not feel that way whenever that clingy pest Bang Yongguk, that fucker, that  _fucker_ continued to stay by Youngjae's side no matter if the entire school loathed Youngjae. It was expected, after all, since they were both gay and so desperate for one another. Bang Yongguk was so desperate, so, so desperate. Students scorned him for hanging out with Youngjae but he still persisted, making it obvious he was gay too and as much of a freak Youngjae was.

I really did not feel bad for Youngjae. If I did, why did I trip him and make him bleed that one time? If I did, why did I slap him and bang his head against the locker so hard he became unconscious? If I did, why did I grind my foot into his stomach and make him vomit? See, I did not feel bad for him. I stopped others from picking on him only because I wanted to the glory of teaching Yoo Youngjae a lesson. I still let people laugh and taunt him; I just kept their hands away from the filthy faggot and dirtied my own ones for the good of everyone else. I claimed him as my prey. Youngjae was mine. He was all mine.

It was funny to see that fucking bastard, goddamn  _cunt_  Bang Yongguk try to protect his little girlfriend. He kept trying to talk to me, like the sissy he was, solving things with words since his fists were useless, and of course, I beat him up several times. Every time I bashed him up, I would always see Youngjae tending to him and speaking softly (bet it was disgusting sweet nothings) like Bang Yongguk was some fucking noble knight in shining armour. How pathetic. Bang Yongguk, the dear Prince Charming—if Youngjae saw our fights, he would see just how useless and weak Bang Yongguk was. I would say I went easy on him, being the generous person I was, but I cannot lie, I wanted to tear his face apart and break his head, make him bleed, how he was always so close to Youngjae, always so close, so, so close. I hated him because he was gay.

One day, I got sick of letting him live. I snapped because I was honestly far too merciful to Bang Yongguk, and that day, I remember clearly what had happened. Sick, sick,  _sick._ I'd beaten up Bang Yongguk so badly he was bleeding from his forehead and I happened to skip class that day and chanced upon them at a remote location of our school. The routine was simple. Bang Yongguk would stagger to the bathroom, clean himself up and then Youngjae would meet him at the unused stairwell near the renovating hostel to have lunch since they were always jeered at in the canteen. I happened to walk there and I was morbidly curious, like at a freakshow, so I watched them.

As usual, Youngjae was patching Bang Yongguk up like a nanny, with those loving, sickening eyes, bawling them out like Bang Yongguk was so self-sacrificing and noble. They always acted hilariously like this when they were alone and in private, as if they were Romeo and Juliet. Youngjae would cry like a bitch and beg Bang Yongguk not to fight with me, and say they should stop being friends, and Bang Yongguk would pretend to be so high and mighty and vomit bullshit about staying by his side like a brother, when it was obvious he just wanted to fuck Youngjae. They had been speaking too softly for me to hear but from the way Youngjae was moving his lips, I just knew he was spouting all those revolting lovey dovey words to Bang Yongguk.

Obviously, since Bang Yongguk fucking  _kissed_  him.

 

 

 

It still makes me nauseous.

 

 

 

I still want to kill Bang Yongguk whenever I think about it.

 

 

 

Disgusting.

 

 

 

_Disgusting._

 

 

 

_**Disgusting.** _

 

 

 

Bang Yongguk hurled some stupid excuse to Youngjae about him always kissing his younger cousins, even if they were boys, so as to stop them from crying.  _Bullshit_. Load of fucking bullshit, he just wanted to fuck Youngjae, just wanted to spread his legs, rip him open, mark Youngjae as his. So I beat Bang Yongguk up, broke his teeth and left him bleeding onto the concrete.

I had to do what I did.

I knew it was not enough. Beating him black and blue, making him bleed all over the floor, come back with broken arms and sprained legs, no, he still kept running back to Youngjae no matter how much I broke him and made sure he couldn't walk. Desperate bitch would crawl his way back if I sawed off his legs. They were contaminating the air us innocent, pure people breathed, and I had to punish Bang Yongguk. It was not just me who did it to him anyway. Himchan was the one who took the nude shots. I made him kneel over but Himchan was the one that stripped him, and it was all of us that held him down. I just did what I had to do so Bang Yongguk would finally disappear, transfer out into a school far, far away. Far, far away from Youngjae.

Finally, Youngjae was all alone. He had no one. And no one had him. There was no more Bang Yongguk who would touch Youngjae inappropriately and taint my eyes with such a gross sight, no more laughing and making Youngjae smile in that way, no more feeding, no more hugging, no more playing together on the field, no more walking home (staying back until nine on Thursdays to "study" in that corner of the library, where Youngjae will always pretend to sleep and Bang Yongguk will use this chance to touch him on the head, fucking faggots), no more hanging out by the sports hall during their breaks (Youngjae singing his favourite songs while Bang Yongguk played the piano, several new ones, he always sang that one song Greensleeves to me when he was trying to seduce me), no more talking at that stairwell (about staying friends forever, buying houses beside each other, stuff he used to trick me with, they were obviously going to stay together because they were gay), no more anything. No one there as an obstacle, no one to stand between Youngjae and me.

It felt, admittedly, extremely, extremely good. Now, this triumph came from finally erasing a freak of nature in my proximity. There was only one freak left in the school and Youngjae had no escape. I had him all to myself. As prey.

I beat him. I taunted him till he teared up, pulled at his hair till he sobbed, and punched him till he begged me to stop. Sometimes, I ran my hands up his thighs—mockingly, almost up till his underwear, because I knew he wanted me to touch him like that. He wanted me to grope his back and squeeze his behind since he was a slut. He smelled just like a woman and he felt just like one, so fradulently intoxicating. His skin was so soft and smooth, just that tiny bit of thin hair bristling while my fingers grazed them. That heart-shaped face. Those large eyes. The newfound black and blue into his white, pure skin. Youngjae would tremble and grip me, pleading for me to stop, but I knew he was shivering out of pleasure and he was holding on to me because he wanted me to stay. I humoured that pathetic little bitch, being the generous person I was.

Youngjae got thinner and consequently weaker as time went by, I happened to notice. He went from slightly chubby to bones and sharp angles. It was likely because he skipped lunch every day—I knew because I did not see him in the canteen anymore. He simply stayed in his classroom, so I took to looking for him there. He tried to escape several times by disappearing to the third floor toilets, sometimes the janitor's closet, behind the dumpster, but I was smart. I began asking for a toilet break five minutes before recess and rushed to his class before the bell rang just so I could catch him before he left. 

He skipped school numerous times, but I knew he could not miss too many days for his allowance was not much and he could not afford to see a doctor and fake sick for a medical certificate. I had met Youngjae's parents only twice back when I was younger, but I knew they were extremely strict—Youngjae had missed an enrichment class once (that vixen dragged me out to watch a girly movie called Sunny) and the teacher called our parents. Youngjae had gotten caned and he had cried in school the day after. I bet it did not actually hurt that much and he was just being a wimp, but I knew how scared he was for he never dared to cut class anymore.

It felt good to teach Youngjae a lesson, for he had always been running to Bang Yongguk instead of facing the consequences of his disgusting nature. I told him that I was right—no one would want to be with a freak like him. He could not get a girlfriend because he was too much like a girl, and he could not get a boyfriend because he was a freak of nature—a girl without the proper body. His parents were not around because they abhorred having a freak as a son. No one would love Yoo Youngjae, no one at all.

I was so kind. I was so generous. It was out of benevolence that I did what I did. I felt sorry for Yoo Youngjae because he would never be loved. He wanted to be loved. He had no one, so I took pity on him. I felt bad that he was born a freakshow and would never be able to get love, so he became such a desperate whore and opened his legs for just about any guy.

So I let him pretend he was a woman to me.

It was the first day I had him.

The first day I was inside of him, his pretty body underneath, thin legs folded. The whimpers from his bleeding lips, his wet eyelashes, Youngjae sobbing over and over again. I saw him from the window of the music room after school, where he sometimes hid, and I saw those bastards dared to touch him. They held him down, tied his hands together with a zip tie above his head to the railing and ripped his pants off. They slapped him and Himchan kept stomping on Youngjae's ankles. I could see he was crying, but the music room was soundproof, so I heard nothing. I came in and his wails tore at my ears. He was bawling loudly, so loudly—I can even remember the way he cried, like begging to the heavens, like sobbing over the death of a loved one.

His legs were so white. His cheeks were so red, just like his lips. His shirt rode up past his flat stomach and all of his skin was so, so white.

It was a strange feeling. I admit, it was sympathy that made my throat go dry and the heat double, for I felt bad he was such a freak, so unnatural, so abnormal. His eyes were shut and he kept screaming, and I told Himchan and the rest to get out—because he was my prey. It was silent and he still had his eyes closed, the only sound his laboured breaths and grievous cries.

That ungrateful bitch. I wanted to let him off, but the moment he cried for Bang Yongguk, I remembered what Youngjae truly was. How dare he mistake me for that faggot? How dare he fucking cry and beg for Bang Yongguk? I felt so angry. I stormed over and grabbed his face, and Youngjae snapped his eyes open.

He looked at me with  _fear_. I saw the way he shrunk back and whimpered when I'd barely even touched him, pleading so deliriously for me to let him go and not to leave him there alone. He'd been begging just seconds ago for his precious Bang Yongguk and he looked at me like I was his worst nightmare. Which was good, because I was going to set a freak of nature like him right, so of course he feared me.

His thighs were so white. He was really such a slut with that pretty, deceiving face of his, to the point where he looked pretty even with his cheek bruised and tears all over; he was really a freak. And I felt bad. I was always too kind-hearted and so I felt bad for someone who would never be loved for all his life. Because he was such a miserable failure who could not seduce me that he had to cling to that ugly bitch Bang Yongguk, I took pity on him. It was only because I saw how pathetic he was and it disgusted me to see an actual person stoop so low that I gave in to his whims. He didn't want me to leave him, which meant he was still desperate for me, desperate for a man to love a freak like him.

His skin was so soft and smooth. It was so, so white. He jolted when I touched him and he begged me to let him escape, promising he would never show his face to me again. I squeezed his naked thighs and groped his hipbones, and he started struggling, thrashing and breathing raggedly. I only touched him because he wanted me to, and I felt bad for someone as unnatural as him who craved love and attention. I was being nice so I kept touching him, soft, smooth skin, quivering lips, all tied up for me- everyone to ravish like the filthy slut he is.

I was so disgusted. I wanted to hurl but I felt so sympathetic towards him.

He wanted me to kiss his skin, so I did. I kissed all the way up from his knees to his hips. I could see how panicked he became, for he didn't know how to comprehend that someone actually liked, bothered to pretend he liked him. He shrieked when I tugged at his underwear and spluttered over his pleas for me to stop, trying to act coy at the last minute, so I sat on his injured legs and unbuttoned his shirt. He kept twisting here and there and screaming, and I gripped his flailing head to mark his neck. This was what he wanted. I was doing it out of pity. I was doing him a favour. I was absolutely disgusted while I tasted his skin. Sucked from his collarbones to his nipples, traced the ribs jutting out, soft, smooth skin, I was so disgusted.

Youngjae could not scuffle that much with his arms cuffed above his head and his legs injured—every time he kicked, playing hard-to-get, he would wince in agony. He sealed his lips and refused to let me kiss him even though he wanted it, and I got upset he refused my kindness, so I slapped him over and over again and yanked at his hair. In the end, I had to resort to revealing what I did to Bang Yongguk, what we did, and threaten to spread the nude photos unless he let me kiss him—he just couldn't get it into his head that beggars can't be choosers.

He tasted... disgusting. So disgusting. I was forcing myself to kiss him and teaching him a lesson since this was what he wanted. Since he was always so fucking desperate for Bang Yongguk to be intimate with him, I would do it for him since Bang Yongguk left him. I could feel that he wanted it even though he didn't move his lips and pretended to keep crying. He was a gay slut; obviously, he wanted it. 

Saliva, his tongue, teeth, lips, lips, lips... Tasted so, so, so disgusting. See, I only touched Youngjae because he wanted it. I was so revolted as I touched him but I was humouring him, mocking him by touching him because he was such a whore and he totally enjoyed it. He tasted so... disgusting. I kissed him for so long only because I was trying to get used to the taste, and I was making fun of him. I ran my hands over his body, smooth, white skin, because he begged me for it. Even though he spouted words that implored me to stop, to let him go, I knew what he was actually saying. In fact, all the time he spent with Bang Yongguk was just to spite me. He still wanted me. That was why he kept popping up whever I was. In the canteen, in the assembly hall, even in gym class, he was just taunting me and trying to seduce me.

Soft, smooth skin, they didn't change since that day where he'd slept over, and I'd realised his legs were hairless—a give away to his true nature that I foolishly turned a blind eye to. All the marks I made on so much white, his disgusting scent, hint of vein down his neck, under his jawline, kissed, kissed, kissed, all because I wanted to teach him a lesson. Since he wanted it so much, I would give it to him. 

It took a while before I finally entered him, since he kept writhing and shrieking for help, acting uninterested. Legs spread, soft, smooth skin, so submissive, my handprints on his thighs pushed up against his chest, red lips. Disgusting. I had to hit him hard enough so he would be dazed for a few moments so I could thrust into him. He screamed so ear-piercingly I cupped his mouth, and I smacked him when he tried to bite me. I had to clamp down on his cheeks because he just wouldn't stop weeping.  _I_  gave him what he wanted.

He was so... disgusting. So fucking disgusting. Him underneath me, blue-back cheek, red, red lips, red, red, bloody lips, legs parted, almost naked, body bare, skin white, white, white like paper, white like lilies. I felt myself wanting to vomit. But as a real man, I pretended it was a woman who I was inside of. It was horrendous to have to feel a freak like Youngjae inside out but I was a real man so I enjoyed sexual pleasure, no matter if it came from an aberration. He was so tight, so disgustingly tight. He kept thrashing and screaming, howling over and over again, but I  _knew_ he wanted it. He got hard, after all, as I pounded into him. And after a while, he succumbed to the pleasure. He stopped struggling and simply laid there. 

It felt so... disgusting. I couldn't help but think of throwing up as I thrusted into him and he hiccuped, pretty, pretty and  _fake_  face staring up at the ceiling. The tear drops at the end of his lashes accentuated how long they were and his face fit right into my palms, it was so small, so fragile, so... I told you he was just like a woman. Our skin kept touching and it was disgusting, our lips locked, I breathed in all of his exhales, disgusting, so pretty, so unnatural. To be inside of him felt the same like being inside a woman. He was one.

I cannot really remember what had occurred next. He orgasmed first, lower lip trembling, head lowered, still crying silently. I came inside of him and when I pulled out, looking at him sprawled against the wall, sore skin and red handprints all over, my fluids leaking out from him, I felt happy. Happy, since I taught this faggot a lesson. Happy because this bitch deserved to cry. Happy I fucked him till he couldn't even move—he was so still I thought momentarily he was dead, and I suddenly recalled the time he cried because I played dead for too long. 

I don't know why I said sorry to him, really.

He didn't say anything back. Out of courtesy, no, mercy, I cleaned him up and cut him free, but he still laid there staring into thin air and the tears- they seem to keep going on and on. I cannot really pinpoint what I felt at that moment. Guilt, because I let my mother down by being kind to a freak like him. Fear, because people might not understand why I did this and that Youngjae wanted it. And as I looked at him, all I felt was disgust. Head-numbing, suffocating, heart-pounding disgust, and this disgust was so powerful that even someone as strong as me had the tiny bit of inclination to shed a tear. Throbbing heartbeat banging against my head, the urge to touch, by that I mean mutilate him, I wanted to hold him some more as punishment. I was a boy filled with lust; it was natural for me to want to kiss him again, no matter how revolting he is. And it is definitely because I hated him so much that my emotions clogged in my throat and I bit back tears. These tears were angry tears that showed my disgust, of course.

After what seemed like an eternity, Youngjae eventually got up, and it felt so good to see him stagger to the gate, because I'd finally punished him. He wanted it, anyway. I was in a dilemma of whether to walk him home or leave him alone—by walk him home, I am simply saying it nicely as my true intentions were to taunt him all the way back. But because I was tired, I ultimately let him go on his own.

What I felt over the next few days was utmost revulsion. Youngjae was absent for the whole week and the rumour spread that I'd beaten him so hard he'd passed out and was hospitalised, since his belongings were left in school. For the first two days, I thought he was simply late, so in my eagerness to taunt him, I waited by the school gates for him. Those idiots mocked me for how distracted I was, saying that I was finally feeling scared that Youngjae would report me. I was far from concerned about that, this I can assure you. I was more distressed because of Youngjae. Let me explain in case you misinterprete. I was distressed because now that he was not in school anymore, I didn't have anything to do to pass the time. As the days passed and the urge grew to see him, to touch him, by that I mean  _beat_ him, I decided to pay him a visit. Because I was bored.

I skipped the last lesson on that Friday and ran to his home, excited to break another bone of that pathetic little faggot. Unfortunately, because of our "friendship" from before, I knew where he lived, and these kind of things are hard to forget, thus I remembered his address. I doubted his parents were home since they were often busy with work (Youngjae, that sissy, girly freak, sobbed once to me about missing his parents) and I took my chances. I remembered the pipes by the window that he told me about. He often locked himself out of his apartment, being forgetful and leaving his keys at home, and since he lived on the second floor, he would scale the water pipes up and swing in through his bedroom window.

See, I was devestatingly bored without my prey around so I climbed the pipes and slipped into Youngjae's room. It was empty and for a moment, I believed that no one was home, till I strode to the living room and found Youngjae lying on the floor. He laid as an unmoving heap, wrapped up in a blanket and looking absolutely disgusting. His short hair was sprawled out against the floor and his eyes were shut; I could barely tell he was breathing.

What I instinctively wanted to do was to grind my foot into his face, of course, but I decided against it since I was feeling compassionate that day. I approached him and I genuinely wanted to hit him, swing my fist across his porcelain-like features and make them ooze red, but I restrained myself because as said, I was feeling empathetic towards this freak of nature. He was sleeping soundly, very peacefully, and I remembered unintentionally the time where he fell asleep on my shoulder in the bus. I remember this only because I have a good memory, and naturally, when you see similar things, the deja vu will undoubtedly elicit the familiar recollection.

What happened in the bus was an accident, see. I wanted to yell at him to get off but I did not want to cause a ruckus, so I took to glaring at him, glaring at his parted lips, the trace of drool down the side of his cheek, revoltingly long and curled lashes, and his button nose. It was so irksome that I could not help but stare and wonder exactly how a freak like this could come into existence. It was then the bus must have ran over something and my hand happened to fall onto his thigh. As I was confident about my own sexuality, being a man through and through, I did not bother taking it off since it meant nothing to me. You may have thought I had a hidden agenda when I moved my hand up just a little several times, but I obviously did not. It was simply because my hand was numb.

In any case, Youngjae seemed to be fast asleep. I stood staring again only because I was sickly intrigued by how a tranny like him existed, one that stood between man and woman but could tragically never be either one. It was here I felt pity and understood Youngjae's actions better—he was just desperate for love, thus he was so eager to seduce me. And because I turned him down, being completely unattracted to a disgusting shemale like him, he grappled at whoever he could.

He would continue to do so, soliciting others now that the fucking slut Bang Yongguk was gone. It was here, you see, that I realised that for the good of innocent people, I had to show this tramp some sympathy. For others who were intolerable of such freakshows, I, someone who was sure of his own sexual preferences (I am straight, obviously; any real man would be), would have to sacrifice myself. I would let this slut hang on to me as he so deliriously yearned for. The more you push these kind of fags away, the more desperate they become, and for those who did not know how to deal with a skank like Youngjae, it would be terrible.

I tried to wake him up but somehow, he ended up on my lap, still asleep. I was of course strong enough to push him off, but I was extremely lazy that day and let him sleep against my chest. I was also practising to get used to being nice to a whore like Youngjae, even though it irked to be such a great extent I wanted to throw up blood. 

It took hours for Youngjae to wake up. I did not touch him at all. I only put my hand on his leg and as I said, it did not bother me because it meant nothing to me. I had touched him only because his shorts rode up and his skin seemed to be tearing—there were many scratch marks all over his thighs and I touched them, out of curiosity.

He came to in a very disgusting manner, eyelids fluttering gradually like how light snow would fall in the most delicate way possible. It was very disgusting. His head lolled about like branches of rose bushes in a slight breeze; it was very disgusting. His hair touched my nose and I felt like I was choking to death with every inhale.

He seemed to realise after a quick few moments that he was on me and scrambled off, nearly crashing into the ground in his haste. He curled up in his blanket and whimpered, shaking his head furiously and backing away to the door.  _Bad dream, bad dream, just a bad dream_. I stood staring wordlessly out of pity and I felt so, so sympathetic for him when he started calling out for that fucking cunt, that goddamn bastard who should just go smash his head against the wall and bleed out till he dies, fucking,  _fucking Bang Yongguk_.

I had to be honest with Youngjae and tell him the cunt was never coming back, and that all Youngjae had left was me, because I was willing to take pity on him. He didn't want to listen, just chanting feebly over and over again and grappling with the door knob while searching deliriously for his keys. I got angry because he was wasting my time and I pinned him to the wall. Of course, I was extremely intimidating, so he started crying and shrinking back. It felt good, you see, to see him sob and wail at my presence, fucking moping for that bitch Bang Yongguk. It felt good. It really felt good that he teared up instantly when I came near and he shuddered like he was so damn afraid of me, like I was the devil while Bang Yongguk was a fucking angel.

He was so noisy that I could only shut him up by smashing my face against his. My hands were occupied, gripping onto his wrists, and I had to kneel on his feet so he would stop struggling, thus I could only resort to using my lips. He screamed and I grabbed his hair to hold him in place, forcing him to look me in the eyes. His large, glassy eyes made me want to hurl and I liked how he shivered and quailed like I was a goddamn monster, worst thing he'd ever seen in his life, and of course, beg for weakling Bang Yongguk to come like he was his Prince Charming.

I had to tell Youngjae the truth that his dear Bang Yongguk was nothing but a scaredy cat that I stripped and made him kneel before me. I made it clear that the gay freak was never going to come back because he realised that it wasn't worth trying to get into Youngjae's pants and fuck him open. I would never allow these two to prance around as though they had the right to with their polluting, toxic behaviour. I would paste the photos of Bang Yongguk with his legs wide open like a gigolo all over the streets.

Youngjae huddled against the wall and whimpered repeatedly, shallowly breathing as he broke down from the truth that Bang Yongguk never liked him. He shook and cried so grievously that I felt sympathetic once again. I had to be gentle with him else he would run around like a hopeless whore and contaminate the world even more. It was all he wanted, somebody to like him since he knew no one would. I told him honestly that I understood what he so craved for and how he stooped so low to becoming a prostitute because he knew there was no way out. And I said I would be nice, very, very nice despite how much I hated and loathed a gay bitch like him, and I would date him.

I would be kind and be his boyfriend. I think it must have been so unbelievable for someone like him to be pitied so he could not understand me and kept shaking his head, huddling himself into a corner. He must have thought I was that fucking cunt which was why he kept chanting his name over and over again. I grabbed him and I tried to stop him from talking once again, and his lips, they shivered against mine, his lips, his red, so red lips, they were very disgusting, you will surely understand.

I was very desperate to shut his little whore mouth up and so I kept trying to suffocate him. Every time I pulled back to gasp for breath, that deep, deep yearning inside of me to shut his noisy trap made me slam my lips back against his as he struggled and cried. He just would not stop crying. I didn't know why he would not stop; he should be on his knees thanking me for being so nice to him.

Since he did not understand, I latched him against the door and reminded him of what I did to Bang Yongguk. I told him every detail, whispered it into his ear as he cried and shivered in my grasp. I told Youngjae how I stripped Bang Yongguk down till he was stark naked and slapped him over and over again. I told Youngjae how I daringly ran my hand up his legs and how he weeped and begged for me to let him go. I told Youngjae that it was all his fault. And the way he stilled, the way he gazed up at me with glossy, tearful eyes that seemed almost like they were carved out from broken glass, the way his eyes were so swollen and dried up that they looked like they would spill blood if he cried anymore, had my throat constricting.

I just wanted to stop him from saying his name. I hated hearing that fucker's name from Youngjae's lips; I fucking hated how he called out for him like he was his one and only; I hated it so fucking much that I wanted to choke Youngjae with my lips for the rest of eternity. Let me clarify myself: I wanted him to stop because Bang Yongguk was disgusting and I didn't want to remember a faggot like him, while my hands were occupied and so I could only use my lips to mute him, as I mentioned before. The reason why my throat tightened while I stared at Youngjae weeping without a single sound was because, simply put it, the reason why was that, well. You would understand. Yes, I was uncomfortable being in such a close proximity with a freak like Youngjae. And thus, I instinctively reacted that way.

Seeing what a mess Youngjae was and feeling pity for him as he had wrecked his own life by choosing to be gay, I softened my voice and tried to show him mercy. A faggot like him would only be difficult and cause more trouble unless I showed him undeserving kindness. As I worried for the safety and sanctity of the innocent people around me who may be horribly influenced by Youngjae's sickening ways of life, I proposed the same offer as before.

I would be Yoo Youngjae's boyfriend. I would sacrifice myself to keep this scandalous mental freak in control by forcing myself to acquiesce to being his boyfriend. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that this was the only way Youngjae would be appeased. This was the most optimal solution as I would be able to protect everyone and keep Youngjae in check. I could not guarantee the mental strength of the people around me who may heinously deviate towards Youngjae's disgusting behaviour and follow suit, with how conniving and convincing this bitch was. As such, I would be noble and give myself up, since I knew I was a full man and could certainly handle a transsexual like Yoo Youngjae.

It was the only solution, really, to keep Youngjae from spreading his disease and keep him in check. If I pretended to be his boyfriend and sacrificed myself to stay with him, I would always be able to keep watch on his atrocious ways and have him stay in his line. I had to do this to save the innocent people around me, even though I loathed having to stay near someone as disgusting as Yoo Youngjae. I had to do it in order to help others and prevent Youngjae from contaminating the clueless, unprepared people surrounding him. Only I could do it, you see, because I was unquestionably a full man and held not even a single abominable inclination towards men. With how sure I was and the undoubtable mental strength my mother cultivated in me, I was the only one fit to control such a reckless freakshow like Youngjae. I would be able to tolerate him, no matter how much I abhorred being near such an unnatural bitch.

I had to. I was the only one who could. Since Youngjae did not seem to understand, I decided I had to be gentle towards this faggot despite all my insides yearning to pummel him till his teeth broke. After all, if I used violence, Youngjae would run free and contaminate some innocent passers-by who had not been educated like me on what kind of person Youngjae was. I needed to fool Youngjae into thinking that somebody actually liked such a horrid, pathetic slut like him so he would calm down and stop approaching every boy near him to beg for a good fuck.

I cupped his face and for a moment, I was quite surprised by how hard he was shaking. His entire jaw kept twitching in my grasp and he was shuddering so hard I wondered if he had somehow broken himself. His hands were pressed against his chest, fingers spasming violently, and his tears dripped relentlessly into the cusp of my palm. He was moping and gasping for breath while his eyes darted around erratically, so I had to give him some time to calm down. Now, I did itch to simply break his nose but I swallowed down the urge and waited patiently for him to calm down.

I did not want to wipe his tears but as you know clearly, I had to be kind to him if he were to buy into my act that I would love him despite how horrifyingly morbid he was. I really wanted to slap him but I held it in and thumbed his wet cheeks, tilting his head so he would look up at me. I was reminded then of how dangerous Youngjae could be because he was indeed disgustingly pretty for a boy, more so than any other girl I had ever set my eyes on. The way his swollen, chapped lips gleamed with a pomegranate vermillion, how his puffy eyes shimmered with a poignant glitter as though someone collapsed stardust into his hazelnut irises, the manner in which his jaw curved down to his chin and how frail he looked...

It was absolutely disgusting, really. I would not be able to put into words exactly how revolted I felt by how beautiful-  _horrific_ he looked with his unnatural facade stitched into his skin. He was a filthy, walking mirage and it was merciful of me to even allow him to breathe. As I could not endure the sight of such an atrocity—I am not sure why I abruptly recalled the morning after one of our sleepovers where he blearily roused and melted into a rosemary smile, how disgusting—I leaned forward so I could not see him and to balance myself, I wrapped my arms around the freakshow's petite waist.

Youngjae jerked harshly but he made no sort of protest despite my breaths trailing across his neck. I was pleased to know the faggot fell for my trap so easily and submitted to me without an ounce of dissent. I should have never doubted that he did indeed want me all this while and Bang Yongguk was nothing but a pathetic replacement for his shattered heart. Youngjae still yearned for me at the very depths of his heart and let me clarify that I was not happy at that fact as it would be such meaningless pride to be a pillow biter's target of affection, but I was indeed pleased as it would be better for Youngjae to like me rather than someone else such as Bang Yongguk who would only help spread their nauseating influence.

As I was fatigued, I rested my head on Youngjae's shoulder and he once more jolted, hands feebly clutching onto my frame. I did not notice that I had somehow leaned the side of my face against the slut as I was simply too tired with the many events I had to handle. His skin was abnormally soft and smooth and I sighed, deciding I had no choice but to reluctantly play nice. I told him I would be merciful and be his boyfriend since he yearned for one so desperately. I would stop hounding him and protect him—unwillingly, but this I did not reveal to him—from the other bullies in order to appease him.

I had no choice despite how I loathed to even think about holding his small hand. It was out of noble kindness I made the offer and sacrificed myself. My mother would surely understand what I was trying to do. She would know, surely, and I would not be ashamed to tell her I did what I had to do for her as I did not wish for a repeat of my "father". I had not seen her in a few months after my uncle had her sent away for rehabilitation.

My whispers seemed to gradually lessen his violent shivering and I, despite the sheer reluctance brimming through me, shifted back to look him in the eyes. Of course, the things I whispered were just lies to placate him. I was only being gentle and telling him it was okay since I needed him to buy into my act. Else, he would surely run off to contaminate another unsuspecting guy with how much of a filthy succubus he is. 

I told him once more in a voice as tender I could muster—even though I only yearned to rough him up—that I would be his boyfriend. I would stop terrorising him in school, this of course to keep him in check, and I would offer him protection. I could not outright say that I was solely doing this so he would stop spreading his sick idealogies all over the school campus since I needed him to believe I liked him for my self-sacrificing plan to work. It was really only for the good of society that I came up with this so I could protect everyone else.

He was still shaking, though considerably less. To delude him, I cupped his cheek like a boyfriend would no matter how disgusting it felt and lifted his chin. It took a few moments for his flickering pupils to finally land upon mine and my breath seemed to hitch because he was so deceiving. But of course, I, unlike others, would not fall into his trap. I therefore wiped the remnants of his tear streaks and delicately nudged his head into my chest, knowing it would help my cause. I unwillingly embraced him. It must have been so rare for him to know that someone actually loved him, even though it was completely false.

I said I would protect him as bait. I said I would not let anyone touch him like how a boyfriend would act around a girlfriend. This seemed to buy Youngjae over for he was so touched he bawled. His previous crying was out of fear, I suppose, what with his breaths trembling and his panting so shallow and rapid. But this one was starkly different. He wailed so loud it actually hurt my ears and he cried like he was grieving and mourning, like the whole world had collapsed and he was the only one left. His filthy tears doused my shirt and his slender body wracked with sobs, him howling over and over again. It was so sorrowful that even I felt bad enough to hold him tighter. As I said, I am a kind person despite being a full man.

He looked so disgustingly pretty even as he wept. You would never imagine a boy would be capable of making real men falter but Youngjae was really that much of a succubus. I wasn't affected, however. I tried to comfort him with a few sweet nothings, promising to take care of him and lying that I liked him a lot, as much as he liked me. He simply kept sobbing till his voice shrivelled into nothing but hoarseness and a small shred of me had the inclination to feel a little heartbroken. Anyone would as we are all humane enough to feel sympathy for atrocious beings such as Youngjae.

 _I'll protect you_. I only said this to lull him into a false sense of security. He cried harder into my chest upon hearing those words and I honestly felt nothing. The reason why I hugged him tighter was obvious. He was so small for a person, for a boy, I mean, and he was all punctured bones and soft blue-black skin. I cannot remember the time where paleness was the only thing wrapped around him, his skin smooth from any of the blemishes and dried blood. It seems so long ago when we were still friends. Thankfully so, I broke away from his horrible deception.

He leaned back out of my grasp and for once, he held eye contact with me. Why my fingers curled upon seeing his teary eyes was because he was so disgusting. The way his forlorn eyes looked at me as if he was begging with every fibre of his soul, how his lower lip trembled with such misery and woe, how it seemed so familiar... I admit, it was a sight I could not forget. But I could see through his trickery. Still, I wanted him to believe that I fell for it so I inclined forward and pressed our lips together. It was fleeting but the nausea pounded through my heart and my skin heated up from absolute revulsion. He looked so small, so frail, so weak. I wasn't wrong; for a boy, Yoo Youngjae was sickeningly vulnerable and much too beautiful.

 _I'll protect you_. I once more gave him bait by brushing our noses and I shuddered at our exchange of breaths. Disgusting. I pressed our foreheads together and reiterated that I would be his boyfriend, preventing anyone else from laying a hand on him. His long lashes fluttered and the leftover tears spilled from his crossed eyes till he glanced down. With my soothing whispers that I would not give a damn about Bang Yongguk anymore, though Youngjae spoke not a word, I knew he relented. Knowing that he wanted proof, I kissed him in spite of how repulsed I was, and he only pushed me when he started gasping softly for breath. I held his small face in my palms and I really could not deny it. As disgusting as it was, as much as I wanted to throw up by simply looking at him—

Yoo Youngjae was utterly beautiful.

I guess it was here where we started dating. For him, it was dating. For me, I was simply tolerating having him around. When Youngjae finally returned to school, I had to honour my promise even though I would be over the moon to see Youngjae getting beaten up as punishment for his sick ways. As such, I kept others from touching him. I told Himchan Youngjae was only mine to screw with and no one except me could lay a hand on him. I made it utterly clear that if I caught even a whiff of anyone nearing Youngjae, I would rip through their cheeks with my fingers alone.

Since I was nothing close to being a faggot like Youngjae and did not want people to mistake me as one (no one would understand what I was sacrificing for the sake of others), I would bully Youngjae in school but act like his boyfriend elsewhere. It was a good deal since I loved to beat up Youngjae, him being a dirty slut who loved men, while Youngjae would still believe I loved him since I treated him painfully nice outside of school.

I vaguely remember the first day we officially began dating—in only Youngjae's eyes, to make it clear. The prospect was strangely unnerving since I was very much grossed out by us dating, and thus, I was a little nervous around him. I, after all, was his boyfriend. And Youngjae was... my girlfriend, as stomach-churning as it was. See, I was afraid he may not believe that I liked him (obviously not) and may run off to try to plague others to his horrendous thinking. Thus, I waited for him by the school gates and I recall debating on whether to call him in case he was late. These were typical things I was sadly burdened with, being that tranny's boyfriend.

He eventually turned up and halted in his steps once he saw me by the gates. Though I loathed having to do so, I begrudgingly walked him into the school building. I was thinking of saying something but I was a little anxious. To be clear, I was anxious as people might mistake me for being the same kind of freak as Youngjae. I held on to his bag and shoved him every once in a while, though I was not as violent as always.

When we reached the hallways, Himchan threw a few glances our way but he did not make a move on Youngjae. Youngjae seemed rather surprised and I had to roughly push him so he would snap out of his trance. He hurried away without saying a goodbye. I was so thankful once he left. Being around him nearly strangled me alive with how putrid of a person Youngjae is.

Before lunch came, I followed the usual routine of loitering outside Youngjae's class. When he filed out with his head lowered, I wrenched him from the throng and dragged him away to one of the stairwells by the foyer. As his boyfriend, I had to treat him nicely since I did promise him. It was really the only reason I had bought a sandwich for him on the way to school.

He hesitated when he took the box and for some reason, he began crying halfway while eating. It was a silent sort of crying, one that made his button nose blush with a rose tint and made his eyes glimmer with salt. I suppose he must not have been used to someone treating him nicely. Now that I recall, after Bang Yongguk transferred to another school, I was usually the one who hounded him during recess and thus he did not have much of a chance to eat lunch.

Over the few months we were together, as revolting as it was, I was always too kind for my own good thus I developed a higher tolerance towards Youngjae. Our time together was tolerable. Youngjae was mostly quiet, only saying a few things here and there when I asked. When we were in school, I pushed him around and sometimes hit him when we were in more open spaces. I could tell whenever he wanted affection with his glassy eyes and how his short fingers curled, so I would frequently pull him to some hidden corners in the school. I loathed having to touch him but as his boyfriend, I had to. Sometimes, I would finger him behind the stairs and watch as he gasped for breath and orgasmed with a thin whimper. Other times, I would take him raw in the bathroom since he was so lustful and he would come quickly with his hands trembling against the wall. The rest of the time, I would kiss him because he yearned for it. He did not say so, I admit, but it was undeniably evident in the way his lips parted and how his eyes held that sprinkle of glitter.

Outside of school, we would be more intimate with each other. As I said, I grew more tolerant of Youngjae and it helped me carry out my plan better. On the weekends, we would go on dates but not often. Youngjae saw our outings as dates. We would go far out of town where our schoolmates would likely not be and act like acquaintances. In the movie theatre under the guise of darkness, I would hold his hand since he wanted me to. Youngjae got cold easily with his lean frame and I reluctantly had to bring a jacket for him wherever we went, since he was forgetful. Every time I asked if he was a girl, he would prove my point of being a transsexual by saying he was indeed a girl. The first few times, he hesitated in answering truthfully, but I taught him not to lie since it was blatant he was a woman underneath his skin.

Though it was utterly annoying, I gave much of my free time to Youngjae. Since I did not want to be seen in public with such a freak of nature, we would spend most of our time at my house since I was living alone (my mother had been admitted to a mental institution). I would unwillingly interlock our fingers and let him rest against me as we watched DVDs and carry him to my room whenever he fell asleep. I would become tired as well once I saw him sleeping and get into bed too, remembering then that he was in my bed as well. However, I would simply be too fatigued to care although I felt disgusted and due to there being little space on the bed, I would have no choice but to shift him to lay on me. I did not want to but since I was his boyfriend, I was forced to do these sort of repulsive things for him. The times where I had kissed him while he was asleep was out of a curiosity for he simply was too feminine for a boy with a horribly decpetive face like his. I could feel how smooth and hairless his thighs were when our legs naturally tangled due to how narrow my bed was.

Youngjae sometimes sobbed when we made love. To him, it was making love, while I saw it purely as sex. As a man, I needed to satisfy my needs as well. He would tremble underneath me and muffle back his cries with one hand whenever I thrusted into him and in the heat of the moment, I would lock lips with him out of strictly lust. He was so thin I often thought I was handling paper and he would break apart any moment. After sex, I constantly had the urge to ask him to leave since he was not needed anymore, but then, I could not as I was his boyfriend. I consistently wound up having to hold him while we slept, my fingers resting upon his petite hips and his small palm grossly lingering on my chest.

Whenever I remembered the store room and my mother, I would occasionally forget why I sacrificed myself to become Youngjae's boyfriend in the first place and therefore, I would shout at Youngjae and reveal to him that I was only dating him because he wanted me to. He would hide himself and weep beside the washing machine out of sight, sometimes slipping out of the house when I did not notice. I was obliged to apologise, certainly not out of guilt since—as I had mentioned, I did not feel anything whatsoever for Youngjae. I would then seek him out and shower him gently with sweet nothings till he stopped shaking in my presence. To seem more sincere, I would regretfully have to splurge on him so he would feel better. I would buy him cakes and other sweets and he would a few times get cream on his lips in his subtle eagerness. I thumbed his lips because it was just childish to see a teenager smear white all over his mouth. Childish, really, how he could simper like he had sunshine within his teeth. Very childish, to see his eyes crinkle at the sides and the repressed smile melted into his prominent cheeks. I remember his parents never allowed him to indulge in such treats.

There were times where, admittedly, our relationship was more tolerable than I expected. Times where the moonlight would fall upon Youngjae's face and I was too tired to let go of his hand as he slept, times where he would smile softly at the television screen when the funny drama scenes splayed out, times where he seemed less of a threat to the world now that I could keep him in check. Of course it was more tolerable because I finally chained Youngjae down. That was really the only thing that made this whole fake relationship worthwhile. Youngjae let down his guard and became more comfortable around me, though he was still as silent as ever. Every once in a while, I took photos of him as blackmail. You would ask what use would candid photos do but you may never know when they will come in handy. 

As a proper boyfriend, a believable one, I mean, I had to buy him gifts every now and then. Since he wanted to be a girl, I would buy him things for girls. It was difficult having to walk into those shops and watch those women giggle at me—sometimes, I would think of the candle wax burnt into my skin, and sometimes, I would also see my mother amid those female staff. I would sometimes also be afraid that they may misunderstand my relationship with Youngjae, perhaps they might think I was actually gay, they would not understand what I was doing, which even more so gave me the need to buy these female products for Youngjae to make it utterly clear he was female.

I bought Youngjae a few dresses, accessories and make-up products over the months we were together. I did not know what they were with all the strange names and types so I would ask the staff to get me whatever it was that would make a girl happy. Girlfriend, I would state clearly and remind them time and time again in case they got the wrong idea. Strange and for a reason unbeknownst to me, I would get rather jubilant whenever these staff would ask on their own if I was shopping for my girlfriend. The idea of it was nice, I suppose, even though I was in actuality putting up with a faggot like Youngjae.

I confess, I would get a little upset when Youngjae did not seem excited by what I bought him. It was natural. Even if I did not like him at all, I went out of my way to purchase these items for him. I suppose he was simply embarrassed since he blatantly liked these sort of things. In any case, he wore the dresses when I asked him to try them on. It was despicable how effeminate he looked with his stick thin legs and how shimmering his eyes were with the contrast of his cherry pink lips. I would instantly feel bad for him as he was born such a freak and allow him to sit in my lap. I would caress the flesh beneath his skirt and touch him wherever he squirmed and clenched his fingers into the sofa.

The way his slender legs spread, how he shifted against the mattress as I buried myself within him, the manner in which he writhed and teared up upon orgasming... Anyone would have been pulled in. I am not gay but I closed one eye and simply pretended Youngjae was a girl. He was almost one, in any case, just unfortunately with the wrong body parts. I was being nice and making him feel good about himself whenever I told him he was pretty. I was helping him feel more like an actual girl, which he so wanted. Of course, I didn't mean these compliments. You may have mistaken from how spontaneous they were and how they came from my mouth so easily, but that was because I practised. I didn't actually think he was pretty. 

I bought us couple rings once. I obviously did not intend on buying one for myself. Rather, I bought it simply to please him, as I knew it was the trend that most girls fawned over. And I did not want to waste all the effort that went into the pretend relationship. The rings were rather expensive since I did not pay attention to the store. They were quite beautiful, silver in colour with an infinity sign crafted from fake glitter, but nonetheless, still precious. It was too girly for me thus I did not wear it in school while I made Youngjae wear it, since I did not want it to go to waste. I, admittedly, was a bit pleased with the rings, so I wore them outside of school on my fourth finger. It wasn't exciting, however. Most boys and girls would feel that way since these rings usually mark a sense of belonging to their significant other. The reason why I made Youngjae wear it was because I did not want it to go to waste, as I said. I only wore mine because it was expensive.

Looking at it now on my ring finger, the shine has blatantly faded. I still wear it only because it was part of my teenage days and thus automatically contains some nostalgia, despite my relationship with Youngjae being horrendously torturous. I wear it for fun, honestly. I can barely remember that Youngjae has the other ring. He must have probably thrown it out by now.

I had better take it off, else that faggot may get the wrong idea when he arrives. Slipping off the dull ring, I inspect it for a moment or two, a sudden overwhelming sensation crunching into my bones. I can't exactly pinpoint what it is. To say it is sorrow makes no sense, for why would I feel any sort of grief over a meaningless ring? You are mistaken. Anyone would feel a little sad to see something from their childhood a long, long time ago.

 

 

 

I... should have realised.

 

 

 

The week before the incident, Youngjae, that disgusting filth, was acting awry. He was initiating affectionate gestures—holding my hand nervously when we laid on the couch watching television, gently pecking me on the cheek whenever we parted, responding fervently whenever we made love (pale hips stammering back against my appendage). He talked more and would brush our fingers without pulling away like he had been scalded.

The day before it happened, he seemed very restless. He asked if we could go to the carnival in the next town and so, we did. It seemed far away enough so we talked and laughed while throwing hoops and going on rides. When afternoon came, he asked if we could go home, and we did.

It was the first time he initiated sex. I knew he was always lusting for what I had that he did not want on himself but he was never daring enough to outright advance. That time, however, he climbed into my lap and pressed his lips to mine.

I was a little too emotionally invested in him. I admit this. Why should I not? It does not mean I deviated towards his sickening ways. It did not mean I liked him, not even a shred. We spent a good deal of time together so it was natural.

We made love. Whenever he was under me, he would simply clutch at the bedsheets and look elsewhere while biting back his whimpers. It was different that time. He cupped my face, those disgusting, small hands, and pulled me down to kiss his disgusting lips. And when we climaxed, in the heat of the moment, as all people do by accident every now and then, words that never actually meant anything and were simply said to fit the mood, what was a complete lie with not an ounce of truth, I told him once again that I loved him.

He said he loved me too. That disgusting, disgusting mouth whispered those few words I had never heard him utter since we began dating. Before I learnt of what he truly was, when we were still disgustingly friends, he would say it once or twice when he was excited or when I did something for him. This was different.

I really should have known. These kind of things are always sorrowful, no matter if it is with a long-time rival or an acquaintance. No matter if it is with someone you utterly loathe, someone who you pretend to love every single day of your life, someone you hold to sleep and kiss because you have to.

He did not come to school the day after. I waited for him outside the gates till the guard screamed at me to go to class. When I waited for him outside his class before recess, one of his classmates said he was absent. I did sense somthing amiss so I skipped my last lesson and went to his apartment block. When nobody answered the door, I went back downstairs and tried to scale the pipes up. The windows were locked, so I sat outside his door for hours, just... waiting.

I was afraid. I will confess this because like any normal human being would, we feel empathy and worry even when our biggest enemies are in possible danger. I felt fear, as with any person would, because I was scared something may have happened to him.

When night came, Youngjae's elderly neighbour returned from work and saw me sitting at Youngjae's doorstep. It was then that for the first time in my life, no, perhaps the second or the third—how foolish of me to get so distraught when I was first told to separate from Youngjae and when I first saw him cry after I beat him up (it made no sense, really)—that my heart broke.

His family had migrated to the U.S. I do not know why I teared up, really, but you would understand, even though I hated Youngjae and how disgusting of a person he was. You would understand how it feels and why I cried. It is natural. Ask anyone and they would have the natural tendency to cry if the person they hate but are familiar with have suddenly gotten up and went.

I have no fear to admit that I was a bit hurt. It is true; I was indeed a little upset. Simply that I gave a large amount of my time to Youngjae and it was now left empty, and thus I was coping with these feelings of confusion. Confusion, yes, maybe a bit of disbelief, and you may ask and I will simply tell you. It was painful and I cried. I was young, so of course, I was still susceptible to these sort of sissy habits. I was young so it was natural.

It is true that I could not stop crying when I returned home. It is true that I wept hard and the pain was so excruciating I tried to kill myself, but stopped in case he might come back soon. So what?  As I said, it was natural for a young person at that age to be weak to these sort of superficial and laughable emotions. The reason why I could not stop sobbing was because I was afraid I could not keep him in check anymore. Yes, exactly. I was delirious over how my efforts all went to waste.

His soft hair, the way his brown eyes flickered when I touched him, how his toes curled and how he fell asleep on my shoulder, it was not these, obviously, that made me despondent. I had invested so much time into that bitch and it was all for nothing.

Searching the school records corroborated what Youngjae's neighbour said. I was so reluctant to believe that all my efforts had gone to waste that I begged my uncle to find Youngjae for me. His neighbours said they left no form of contact, not a house phone number, since Youngjae's parents were never that close to their neighbours. I did not want to believe it was true so for many days, I cut class and waited outside Youngjae's apartment. It seemed quite believable he would simply open the door at any moment and ask me to come in. I would not have minded if perhaps, we were ten years old once again, and he would pull me in without any hesitation and pretend to talk about stuff guys liked.

He never came home. It is true that I wept every now and then while I waited. I have already explained that it is utterly reasonable; you would be strange to not feel any sort of emotion, no matter if I hated Yoo Youngjae. I did hate him, to make it clear. For a few months, I would wait for him outside his home after school and save up my pocket money for a plane ticket to America. I could not let all my effort go to waste, you see.

After my uncle told me that America was much too huge to find just one person, it seemed the reality slowly broke through to me. After days of starving myself, doing homework in the corridor of Youngjae's apartment building, and finally looking the new tenants of Youngjae's household in the eyes, I knew all my search attempts were futile. The days we spent with my arm wound around Youngjae's hip under the sheets, how I could not sleep feeling his breath against my lips, the rare seconds he would look into my eyes, it was all gone.

I never saw Youngjae again.


	2. Chapter 2

It seems I have gotten a little emotional. As I said, it is natural to become like this when one is reminiscing. It is not as if Youngjae mattered much to me for I can barely remember how our times together were like. In a few years, I had long forgotten about Yoo Youngjae, that filthy faggot, and simply prayed he would not have contaminated others and hopefully turned over a new leaf. I admit, there were several times I thought about visiting him over the twenty years or so I have not seen him, but as I said, those moments were fleeting and simply out of impulse and a careless curiosity. I only wanted to see him for I wondered if he may have perhaps rotten into a form much worse than before. Perhaps, he... is with another man now. It would be expected of that atrocious, disgusting transsexual to get together with another man, to spread his legs for another freakshow like himself, to moan like the fucking slut he is in the arms of another man. Maybe it could be fucking Bang Yongguk he has been with for these twenty one years and five months through which he has been missing.

My finger instinctively digs into the hole ripped through the school yearbook, edges musty and frayed. I pull back my hand and soothe the trail of green brimming along my skin. It does not matter to me. I have long washed my hands off Yoo Youngjae. It is regretful he escaped my grasp and I could not keep him in check, but I have had far more important things to deal with over the years than watch over a gay lunatic. In fact, I would have rejected his offer to visit if he had not been so insistent and simply set a date and time without asking. After twenty one years, I have forgotten everything.

This crushing sensation is quite laughable, in all honesty. Let me make myself clear first and foremost that it is not despondency or any hilarious, flimsy emotion as such. Men do not have the time to cave in to such ludicrous, womanly feelings. With the memories I have sparked instinctively, it is natural to feel a strong sense of nostalgia for I have grown so much. What am I feeling now can only be described as a concoction of disgust, regret and wry sentiments. Regret that I could not chain down Yoo Youngjae better and keep his sickly notions from plaguing other people, is my meaning.

Really, I can barely recall how he looks like. I had nearly forgotten his name if it were not for the help of my yearbook. Yoo Youngjae, Yoo Youngjae, Yoo Youngjae. He is but a scrap in my high school memories. Glancing to the clock, it is now one o'clock in the afternoon. I have been up since five for I could not sleep, some strange restlessness wracking my skin and bones for the past week ever since I received the letter. It is obviously disgust, but out of mere curiosity, I have decided to take a week off so I can accomodate his arrival. A week may seem excessive but I had already planned on taking a short break for myself and it just so happened that filth happened to choose a date within this period.

How eccentric. My fingers seem to be twitching. It must be rheumatism. Nothing a man like me cannot handle. I have not gone to the doctor in years for I have naturally recovered from every sickness that has tried to grapple with me. I am not a weakling who has to run to the physician for every small little symptom. Rising from my seat and clenching my fist to rid the shudders, I roam over to the items on top of the display cabinet.

You would ask why this is here and I have a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation for this gift. Despite loathing someone such as Youngjae, I am still a gentleman to every woman and Youngjae, as I have long mentioned, is inwardly one despite his freakish body. As such, I was obligated to purchase a gift for him. I could not be bothered to think about what a freak like Youngjae would want so I bought him a typical feminine gift, a bouquet of red roses. I emphasise that it is not of a romantic gesture but merely to be courteous. Even if I am masculine and take no interest in these girly hobbies of gift-shopping and whatnot (the whole concept has always bewildered me that women would invest so much time into finding a gift to please their spouses, friends and family), I was begrudgingly obliged to buy these meaningless flowers for Yoo Youngjae.

Underneath the bouquet, I have additionally prepared a gift box. This, I did not come up with myself. I had simply swung into a jewellery store by accident the other day and thought of purchasing whatever fragile necklace women love to flaunt, something I was sure Yoo Youngjae would delight in, him being a faggot and whatnot. The female staff there recommended a few designs and I happened to find the diamond-encrusted infinity sign necklace quite intriguing. You may say that the present is much too expensive, being three thousand dollars worth, but it is a mere speck out of my income. I am much too wealthy to not be able to afford something as trivial as this.

The jacket was something I had invested very little time into coming up with—I only recounted offhandedly that he used to get cold very often, something anyone else would have easily remembered, so I randomly swung into a department store and got a coat for him. It happened to be of a similar design of the one I have, perhaps the same, I am not sure, but since I did not bother, I bought it without batting an eyelash. It is not as though it matters, really.

Intrigued, I pry open the box just to get one last look at the gifts. The coat is folded within and above it is the casing for the necklace. Popping off the lid for the necklace box, I twiddle with the ring and compare the two infinity symbols. What a coincidence. They seem almost alike, except one is merely aluminium coated with glitter paint while the necklace is made of actual silver.

The feeling is indeed queer. Within this gap of twenty one years, I wonder how much Youngjae has changed. Perhaps he is no longer a faggot but then again, leopards never change their spots. Though, I do wonder if he has kept the ring I bought for him. It is just an absentminded thought; this ring is but a mere accessory I keep as a memento. I only wear it sometimes for fun and I cannot be bothered to know if he kept the cliched couple rings I bought decades ago for him.

Capping back the box and arranging the bouquet once more above the maroon parcel, I pace away to my room to keep the ring. I flex my fourth finger to rid the discomfort of the sudden freedom over the flesh; I guess I must have worn it longer than I presumed, judging by the deep indent into my skin. I must have forgotten to take it off for some time.

That reminds me. Grabbing my wallet off the counter, I pry out the photograph ensconced below my identification card and toss it onto the chest of drawers. I am not sure how Youngjae's picture got there, really. It must have gotten stuck to my ID card amid some mess. There are many photos which I cannot be bothered to throw out despite them being garbage and this picture of Youngjae must have ended up sticking to the back of my card.

Looking at the image now, I vaguely piece together where this polaroid was snapped at—the carnival that Sunday in August, the day before Youngjae had left for the States. He used to have raven hair that messily fell way above his brows. He was half a head shorter than me back then and it almost seemed one of my thighs was the size of both his legs squeezed together. Scrutinising it now, I seem to recall how pale he was, as if snow had bleached itself into his skin. I cannot remember, really. It is hard to recognise him.

The photograph is all grimy now. I should throw it out later. I would do it now but I am a bit busy. Folding it between two films, I glance at it for a moment more out of shallow interest.

It seems I am getting a bit sick. My throat is feeling rather tight. With it being close to winter, the autumn gales blustering through the city, I am not surprised. Even the strongest of men are susceptible to autumn fevers.

Settling down on the sofa to ease myself, the silence wraps around the set out table nicely. Since I had gotten up much too early, being unable to sleep, I had taken the liberty to properly make the table like a gentleman should. Even if Youngjae is nothing but a tranny, I reluctantly have to treat him like a woman, thus I have to appropriately create the correct atmosphere to welcome that freakshow into my home.

A part of me has been questioning the legitimacy of the letter. It was, admittedly, very out of the blue when I first received that brown letter amid the numerous bills and brochures. I was not able to process it when I first skimmed through it, so I had to read it over ten times after to understand that Youngjae wanted to pay me a visit. He addressed me simply by my first name and asked how I was doing. He also explained that he had returned to Seoul several months before and wanted to see how I was doing. How he had gotten my address was because of Himchan, who he happened to coincidentally stumble upon in Los Angeles, the latter having been on vacation. I was quite... surprised, least to say, that Himchan had managed to bump into Youngjae. In these twenty one years, I have gone to the United States on yearly holidays with my girlfriends, sometimes alone, but I never had the chance, by which I mean the displeasure, of meeting Yoo Youngjae.

Himchan is the only classmate who I have somewhat kept in contact with after I graduated. By somewhat, I mean, he had worked under the same bank as I did in the past decade or so and even though he was working in the branch in Busan, he sometimes dropped by the Seoul branch for work matters. The last I saw him, he was doing rather well, having settled down with his college girlfriend and started a family of his own.

Our last meeting was four years ago before he quit his job and opened up a cafe business along the outskirts of Gangnam. On impulse, I had suddenly asked him about Youngjae. It was merely because it felt like after those long seventeen years, Yoo Youngjae was nothing but a mirage. I had doubted a few times whether or not he had actually existed. Himchan had promptly shook his head with a wry smile and lamented that he did not know where Youngjae was, else, he would apologise for what he put him through. I was forced to acquiesce for cordiality's sake even though I did not feel remorse at all for what Youngjae deserved. He was a pillow biter. My mother would have been proud to know of the punishment I indicted upon that filth.

The handwriting on the letter did not match Youngjae's handwriting from before. In the past, when we were still disgustingly friends, he used to scrawl rather unintelligbly onto his papers and would complain to me that the teachers failed him for only that. However, the letter had been written very neatly in cursive, much like a woman's handwriting. I remember too that he used to always address me as  _Dae_ in the sticky notes and letters he wrote to me when we were younger. He seemed to like calling me that very much for it was homophonous with the English word  _Day._ It repulses me to even think about it. Thankfully, this time, he had taken to calling me by my first name.

Perhaps this letter is not even real. It could be a prank by someone to waste my time. The thought of it ignites a somewhat hollow sensation within my guts, understandably. After all, I had reluctantly invested so much effort into welcoming that tranny out of formalities' sake. To think the letter could be falsified is a little crushing, in that sense.

I have wondered a few times if Yoo Youngjae was still alive during the twenty one years he thankfully vanished from my life. Perhaps he had gotten into a car accident in America, I would think now and then. Sometimes, I would inevitably contemplate if he may have somehow be involved in the shootings that occurred over the years in the U.S. He was the only person I knew who was supposedly in America, thus he was really the only person I could wonder about. You would understand why I would feel a tad bit upset stumbling into those thoughts as no person would wish death onto another, no matter how vile and filthy Yoo Youngjae is, being a freak of nature.

It is ten minutes to three. I am, admittedly, quite unnerved by the prospect of meeting Yoo Youngjae after so many years. This is natural as I have occassionally thought about what could have happened to him. I have many a times believed during the colder nights that he could have already passed on, and I would simply remain unaware for the rest of my life. It was a bit disconcerting but I did not care much. It would be better for a faggot to him to rot away off the face of the earth.

Padding to the mirror, I comb through my hair and rearrange my clothes, the tightness in my throat making it unbelievably hard to swallow. My fingers are twitching. My arthritis must be acting up. The pain is nothing I cannot endure, however. Such measly things are but a mere distraction.

A sudden shrill ring pierces through the air and I whip my head to face the door. He... he is early. It is only eight minutes to three. Nausea abruptly grapples at my head and I briskly stride to the door, hands clammy out of nowhere. I can hear the crispness of my heartbeat thumping within my eardrums. I must be feeling under the weather, definitely. Yoo Youngjae is outside my door; it has been twenty one years, five months and eleven days since I had last seen him. I...

Taking in a deep breath, I tug the door open and stop short at the unfamiliar man clad in a green polo T-shirt, cap with a courier service's logo printed along the front. He is holding a parcel in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

...It is not Youngjae, of course. A strange tension seems to collapse from my ribcage, clenched sinews undoing themselves. I should calm down. It is only Yoo Youngjae who is visiting me; some filthy transsexual who I used to tolerate for the sake of others. I am only waiting to see him strictly because of curiosity. Who would not be intrigued to know what has become of a train wreck? It is a morbid eagerness that causes me to want to see where this revolting faggot has ended up in life with his horrid ways, which would no doubt be mocked and abhorred by other people like me.

"Package for Jung Daehyun?" The delivery man questions, handing over the package when I nod. Swiftly signing the papers, he tucks his board under his arm and seems to regard something with a frown in the neighbouring stairwell before his footsteps arise, pattering one flight down the other.

Ripping open the box, I stare at the small bottle inside. I had ordered this for that sissy boy, now that I recall. It is not as though I spent a lot of time picking out a present for Youngjae. I simply had a lot of time to spend in this week and was feeling generous, thus my sudden splurge. I had bought him some perfume from this brand that my last girlfriend a year ago seemed to fancy a lot. She had told me that women were gravely infatuated with this irksome product and I believe I had not been listening very intently at that time, but Youngjae's troublesome arrival sparked the memory in my head. As the gift did not arrive by last week, I took to purchasing the jacket instead. What a waste.

I decide to place it anyway into the gift box since I have no use for this. It may seem like I have gotten him quite a lot of presents but it is only because of this mix-up.

I hope the delivery man did not misunderstand my reason for the purchase of such a perfume. These feminine scents are fine to smell on women like Youngjae, but I would rather throw up than to ever consider the prospect of wearing something so stomach-churning. I am sure he will understand I am buying it for a woman, from a fellow man's perspective. He will understand, definitely.

As I move to shut the door, I hear the soft brush of rubber against concrete. The split second that follows does not give me enough time to process the noise. It is then that someone appears before me. Glimmer of white, chocolate brown hair, petite frame and black jeans.

 

 

 

 

 

I.....

 

 

 

It... It has been such a long time but he... he still looks... pretty.

 

 

 

I... haven't seen him in twenty one years.

 

 

 

I... I thought he had already died on so many nights. Whenever it was cold, I... I thought maybe he could have long passed on and I... I would just never know for the rest of my life. 

 

 

 

I would keep waiting until I myself died, and even then, I would never know.

 

 

 

But... this...  _this_ person here—his thin body, his heart-shaped face, his large eyes and long lashes- 

This is the boy I made love to twenty years ago. The boy I buried myself within, the boy I kissed till he gasped desperately for breath, the boy I held hands with under the sheets.

After so long... I...

 

 

 

...I have finally met Yoo Youngjae again.

 

 

 

"Hello." His voice is lower than last time but is still as delicate and soft as ever, like primrose in spring. His mouth moves like roses by the nightingales, rich with crimson pigmentation and skin paper white as ever. He... he is still as...

It takes me a few moments to finally come to my senses.

"...Hello," I churn out, the inflection in that one word rather off-key. The sensation is a little unreal but I manage to step back, holding the door open for him.

He is... still the same. Disgusting, I mean. He is still as disgusting.

I must have zoned out there a bit. It is normal since I have not seen this... freak in a while. It just caught me by surprise to see him at my doorstep when I have not seen him in two decades. We are both thirty seven years old now.

...Twenty one years. 

I thought... I would never see him again.

Well, of course I would be shocked. For these two decades, I have only been looking at him through photographs and the scraps of letters he had written for me, those which I hid from my mother. She had in good intentions swiped most of my mementoes with Youngjae and burned them, using the leftover flames from the shrivelled papers to scorch my skin. One for every letter she deemed was atrocious, those where I stupidly, foolishly wrote my heart out to Youngjae and told him I loved him. He would reply that we were as close as blood brothers and would stay together forever. Just to clarify, I did not actually mean the insane words I spouted to him. I was a young boy at that time; I was simply lusting for a girl and since there were no girls within reach, I thought of settling my needs in the closest substitute which was this freakshow Yoo Youngjae.

Yes, yes. It is simply Yoo Youngjae, this horrendous transsexual, at my door. My mother would screech at me if she ever knew I had let this gay prostitute into my house but I can assure my mother and everyone around me that I am not like Youngjae. I am simply curious and to pass the time, I have relented and allowed Youngjae to visit me to see how this freak has been able to survive for so many years. He should have died a long time ago. I have thought this many, many times.

The boy-  _man-_ no, that does not sound right either. He is not a man; he is far from a full man. He is so repulsive. People like him are the reason why my mother has suffered for so long.

Youngjae steps gingerly into the house and I notice then he is a few centimetres shorter than me. He has wrinkles along the sides of his eyes, skin as milky as I remember it to be despite the fact that he had been living in California summers for such a long time. His lips are tinted with a blossom pink, gloss prominent off the curve of his mouth. His shoulders are jutting out underneath the thin material of his baggy dress shirt, much like those that one of my exes fawned over for it had the quality of possession in its dressing. A boyfriend shirt, I think she must have said. I don't recall her words but I seemed to have understood a little at that time—I used to make Youngjae wear my shirts when we were dating. Correction, I let him, and I felt gravely uncomfortable as it felt like I claimed him as mine when I loathed any sort of relation to him.

He is standing before me. Shorter than me by half a head, eyes holding a dash of fatigue, nothing but tiredness to his expression. He flutters his lashes.

I... I seem to have a bit of a problem comprehending his presence. I have not seen him for so long. That must explain why I have the urge to reach out and touch him to see if he really is here. If perhaps, this is another one of my dreams where he unfortunately visits and I have to hold hands with him at the park, where the world is but us two. Sweet springs and intertwined fingers, us on the roof again but at seventeen years old, for my mother would not be alive to know. These dreams always made me terribly upset in the morning for I was so grossed out my mind forced such a revolting conjecture.

He is... so, so... so disgusting. How could I have been so stupid to allow him into my home? My mother- she would lock me up if she knew. She would burn me with the knife she put in the fire and she would strangle me. 

~~I... I want to touch him.~~

"It has been a while," Youngjae starts. The ends of his lips curl out of politeness.

A while?

_A while?_

I have waited twenty one years since that Sunday to see him again. Through countless winters and rainy days, where I thought he would be cold and shivering if he forgot his jacket while he was out. I have waited for so long—so long through the horrible minutes and seconds in the empty corridor of his floor, listening for footsteps and getting my hopes up, only for my heart to be crushed back into my guts. Sometimes, the hallway would be so quiet I could hear only the sound of my weeping between the memories of his voice. For years, I hated silence so much that I could not sleep without the radio on, yet in the day, I would sit there and let the silence suffocate me just so I would be able to sieve out his soft breaths and the crack of his joints around the corner.

_A_ **_while_ ** _?_

"Yes," I reply. Something clogs my throat and I decide to excuse myself. Seeing him makes me want to hurl.

"I will get you something to drink." I stride to the kitchen and grab the coffee powder off the shelves. There must be something in my eyes.

I thought so many times that he was dead. Sometimes, I scared myself thinking during the random times of the day that he may have been in danger. Perhaps someone like Himchan was bullying him in his new school. Perhaps, someone like... me.

It was the first time I wished Bang Yongguk would be by his side again.

Let me clarify: I only wished for that because these two faggots deserved each other. Youngjae probably convinced his parents to migrate to the U.S. because Bang Yongguk, that horrendous, scathing prostitute, was there. Therefore, I simply washed my hands off these two hopeless trannies and let them off.

Yoo Youngjae is in my house. I halt in my ministrations as a strange sensation washes over me, bringing me back two decades to us under the sheets. Him with his raven hair sprawled out over the pillow, disgustingly wheezing so softly I had to go revoltingly close so as to ensure he was breathing. Because I was curious as to how small his hand was, because I was obliged to as his boyfriend, we would hold hands under the blanket and I sometimes could not sleep with him by my side. Obviously, with him so repulsive and sickening, there was no way I could get a good night's sleep.

I remember once, when we were much younger and still "friends" in middle school, that he said he did not want to sleep during our sleepover. I asked him why and he said he liked being awake since I was there with him, rather than in his dreams.

Disgusting.

My allergies are acting up. I pace away to the bathroom and dash away the tears, caused by the dust pricking at my eyes. Inhaling deeply, I grip the mugs of coffee and stride out of the kitchen.

Youngjae is standing in the middle of the living room, sleeves pooled at his wrists and the shoulder line of his shirt a little over his shoulder blade. I wonder if it perhaps belongs to his boyfriend. Maybe Bang Yongguk, or some Caucasian man who he has revoltingly been with over the years he had left the country.

I look away out of disgust when he glances over. Placing down the mugs, I naturally am forced to walk over to him and pull his chair out. He is, after all, half woman and I thus have to treat him with the proper mannerisms.

Youngjae tilts his head up further while he sits, as though startled, and it seems to jolt a vague recollection—when we had begun dating and I draped my jacket over his shoulders since I could not stand the sight of a boy so femininely weak, shivering in the movie theatre. 

I nearly forget what my intentions were and nudge in his chair after a moment, my palm clutching the back of his chair. My fingertips are but a few inches away from his pale neckline, white skin stretched over sharp angles. Under the light, the years seem to be even more prominent, dark circle punctured underneath his eyes.

~~I... want to touch him.~~

I wrench my hands away and wind over to the opposite seat, settling down. He... is in my home. Yoo Youngjae. He has been missing in my mind for two decades. I never imagined I would ever see him in the context of my home, against the marine curtains and along the parallels of the wallpaper.

He is so repulsive.

Youngjae's thin fingers uncurl and he gingerly reaches for his cup, pinky sticking out as he downs his drink. I don't recall him ever having such a habit back when we were dating. He licks his red, cherry, apple, rose lips and his twirled lashes bat against his cheek, arm gently placing down his coffee.

"I was afraid you may not be free today," Youngjae begins, voice soft like the curl of an autumn leaf. His glassy eyes meet mine. "I am sorry for coming over on such short notice."

It is only Yoo Youngjae here for a visit. There is nothing to be worked up over.

"Do not worry yourself. I happened to have an off day today," I state. We simmer into a lengthy silence, his eyes fixated on his coffee cup as he delicately stirs his beverage. 

"How have you been?" He asks, voice hoarse and feeble. His hazelnut irises shimmer as if the light above has shattered into his eyes, nothing but glass glistening around his pupils. His snowy skin, his blood red lips, his button nose...

"I have been living well," I remark firmly, leaning back into my chair and momentarily glancing away in disgust when he makes eye contact with me. Yet another layered quietness collapses upon us, him finally placing down his tea spoon after stirring his coffee for an awfully long time.

He blinks twice, thick lashes fluttering like that of a butterfly. As I said, every of his gesture resembles that of a woman, perhaps even more fragile than a female. How atrocious.

"I'm... sorry for leaving then without telling you," he says, his breath wilting towards the end. His pupils flicker up to delve into my eyes, tint of remorse juxtaposed against his heart-shaped lips.

He's sorry? Sorry for abandoning me, his boyfriend, all those years ago without a single warning?

He could have simply told me. If he had written a note or just breathed a word about it, I would not have spent all those fucking months in the darkness of the corridor, sunlight heinously blocked by the opposite apartment complex, hoping like a fucking  _idiot_ for him to one day emerge from the lift. I wouldn't have wasted all those minutes, hours, days, months, a  _year_ breaking against the concrete floor.

Just waiting... hoping... praying...

I just wanted to see him one last time. That... that was all I wanted. I just wanted to know he was safe and sound.

You would surely understand my intentions. I may loathe Youngjae's behaviour and his horrifying ideology but I am a kind person who worries about the safety of others, even a transsexual like Youngjae. He is a living thing, after all. If we are able to feel for animals, surely you would feel a shred of empathy for a faggot like Yoo Youngjae.

"Leaving when? You mean, all those years ago?" I cock my head one side, slipping my hands onto my thighs when my arthritis begins acting up once more. "What is there to be sorry about? I barely noticed."

Youngjae's lashes delicately grazes his skin as he nods slightly, gaze falling to the table. He is still so small and frail even though he is now an adult. Yoo Youngjae is truly a woman born with the wrong genitalia. How pitiful.

His stare lifts from the mahogany of the dining table and he briefly glimpses around, a small, fragile smile worn over his mouth. "You have a lovely house. Is your, um, mother living with you?"

"No. She committed suicide five months after you left," I provide, slurping at my coffee. Some of the brown has stained his incredulously ethereal lips, those no man should ever possess. My mother would be livid to know a freak like him still exists, yet another disgusting being that belongs to the species my "father" originates from.

Immediately, Youngjae's large orbs widen, his expectedly sensitive self lowering his head in misery as women would do when hearing bad news. He whispers in a broken voice, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." It is stupefying how he looks like a splitting image of his sixteen year old self. Still doe, still feeble, still horrifyingly pretty for a boy.

He almost seems like a dream, as if my hand could simply pass right through him at any moment and I would awake to the peeling ceiling and the hefty sound of silence, sunlight scorched into my corneas. Like a nightmare, to be more specific. I am appalled this tranny would even have the audacity to contact me. He must have no shame.

~~I want to touch him.~~

Youngjae's pink tongue swipes over his plump lower lip and he hums with an awkward smile, "I heard from Himchan that you are a senior accountant now. That's quite the feat at your age."

"Of course." I place my hand on the table and drum my fingers against it, distractedly staring at the textures of the table. "As a man, anything less would be shameful."

His voice is nauseatingly familiar for a boy I cannot care less about. I doubt he remembers telling me when he was younger he wanted to be an accountant because of the pay—he would be able to purchase anything he wanted and go anywhere he desired. Of course, I chose that career entirely not because of him; any person with common sense would aim for a job with a generally higher pay. It just so happened his dream job became my reality.

"What have you been working as?" I question, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a little more breathy than I expected. It is rather unimaginable that he has been living a life beyond these borders as well. Going to school, graduating college, landing himself a job.

"I was a kindergarten teacher," Youngjae says, the lustre trickling away from his irises. "I quit a few months ago since I am moving back to Korea."

"I see."

A kindergarten teacher. I never expected that. He was quite disdainful of the teaching profession back then. He was also consistently invested in acquiring a job in the financial sector, him being quite business-savvy judging from all the jargon he threw around. It is strange he became a teacher when he often talked back to them.

Then again, that must have been just a guise. Being a kindergarten teacher fits him with how gentle his ministrations are and how feminine he is, as if the autumnal breeze will make him crumble any time.

"You are moving back to Korea?" I ricochet, obviously not paying much attention to whatever this faggot is spouting from his mouth. He is moving back to Korea from America, which means he would be able to visit me more often. What a headache. It just horrifies me to even think of the prospect that his gay bitch will now reside in the same country as me instead of across oceans.

"Yes," he replies softly, brushing over his index finger with his small thumb. "In the next few months or so. I am currently looking for an apartment unit in Seoul."

"I saw an advertisement for a three-room unit five minutes away from here, on the train station's bulletin board. Maybe you would like to check it out; it seems like a good deal." I inaudibly scrape my fingers against the texture of the table and intone, "I will walk you there later and show you."

I am feeling generous today, thus the offer. I am very sure he will get lost, him having a poor sense of direction. I am also in need of a walk and may perhaps go to check out the apartment with him, since I would like to flex my legs.

I should check with my landlord later if there is a space in this flat. There must be one. But it is obviously not my concern if Yoo Youngjae moves into the same building as me. As a man, I have to assist a woman like him, seeing as he is so incapable of doing anything himself.

"Oh, okay," Youngjae breathes in a small voice, his frail, glass shoulders squeezing in as he maps out the shape of the mug's handle absentmindedly. "Thank you."

"Where are you staying now?" I question indifferently. He would need to move his things over. It is fortunate for him that I have a car and will be able to help him move. As mentioned, I am only helping him out of obligation. My mother raised me to treat women like him with the utmost care, since it is a man's duty to protect a woman.

"I rented a room near City Hall," he answers. That is not too far from here. Just an hour away by car. Now that I recall, I have something to do at City Hall today. It is for work matters. I guess I would have no choice but to head with Yoo Youngjae to that area since we are going the same way.

"I heard the prices at City Hall can be very high. I have a guest bedroom here," I offer with apathy. "You may use it if you need to."

"Ah, it's okay. Thank you," Youngjae returns. "The bills are manageable."

I take a sip of my coffee, not paying attention to his answer. How can he afford to rent a room at a place like City Hall? I am sure he is struggling. It is not my business but being gentlemanly, I have to offer my place up so he will have a roof to reside under. 

Before I part my lips to speak, Youngjae clears his throat delicately. "Have you been to the U.S.?"

"Yes. I go there every year for a vacation," I provide, watching his slim fingers run down the cup. "Sometimes, even two or three times in a year."

"You must really like America." Youngjae churns out a small smile. He looks like a doll—enthralling, pouty lips, large, innocent eyes, slender, petite physique. Disgusting, so, so disgusting.

"It is a nice place." I nudge my cup in, some coffee spilling out. Brown seeps into the white tablecloth and I cross my arms. "Are you moving back with your parents?"

He flits his lashes lightly and provides softly, "I haven't been in contact with them for a while now."

"Why?"

"They... threw me out of the house when I was twenty-two," he laughs softly, bleakness engulfing his abysmal eyes.

"I am sorry to hear that. What happened?" I question. Truthfully, I cannot be bothered by his affairs but I have to be courteous.

He does not like being alone. I wonder how he has coped all these years without his parents. Was he alone in school? He was always one to make friends quickly with how outgoing he was, but after we broke our friendship, he slowly got more and more reserved to the point a few words out of him was the best I could get for a day.

"It's nothing. We just couldn't see eye to eye," Youngjae dismisses with a wry smile, nervous fingers cluttered together.

It is almost impossible for a person to look so small and feeble. To think that he is written to be a thirty-seven year old man on paper, yet here he is with a face revoltingly more beautiful than any woman I have ever met. His features so delicate and feminine, his profile so flimsy and brittle. He must have been very lonely without his parents. I know how much he hated being alone; he used to look as if the world collapse if I needed to be home early, thus leaving him on his own.

~~I want to touch him.~~

"What made you decide to come back to Korea?" I ask. Youngjae hesitates for a moment or so and he does not churn out another one of his cordial smiles.

"I went through a divorce earlier this year," Youngjae says. "So I decided to come back and start anew."

"A divorce?" I accidentally rebound too quickly. Of course, this is out of solely utter shock.

A... divorce.

Yoo Youngjae had gotten married to a man over the years he left. 

Over the years he left me, his boyfriend.

...I should have known. This faggot would obviously move on to some other filthy man to satisfy his sluttish ways. What did I expect? After all, back in high school, once he found out he could not have me, he switched and began clinging onto that bastard Bang Yongguk. He knows no sense of loyalty. This whore knows not a shred of faith. At least I abstained from dating till my twenties out of respect for him. While he simply went off and got married to whatever burly man he could seize off the streets, like the rightful slut he is.

It is not as if I was waiting for him, anyway. As I have mentioned so many times, I barely remember Yoo Youngjae. I was only being a gentleman to that slut. At least I have some form of loyalty no matter how much I loathed him while he left me with the word  _I love you_ and yet, went on to marry another. What were the promise rings for, then?

I can't believe I was worried about him being alone. He was out there fucking every guy he saw; what should I be worried about when this slut knows just how to seduce men with his petite body and pretty, womanish face?

"Yes. My... ex-wife filed for a divorce last year," Youngjae breathes.

Wife?

I glimpse at Youngjae as wordlessness seems to overcome me. He was married to a woman? Someone like him was attached to a woman?

I can't believe it.

"Well, marriage only ties men down," I supply, managing to give at least that one sentence. How unthinkable. I had no idea any woman would desire a man like Youngjae—someone who is essentially a woman if you disregard his genitalia. They must have had a strange relationship. I cannot imagine he would ever settle down with a woman.

I guess what I hoped to achieve came true. He has converted back from his sick, sick ideology of having sexual intercourse with men and started living his life correctly. He has gone back down the correct path and learnt that men should only ever be with women.

Good for him. My efforts were not wasted on him. All those beatings amounted to something. Our time dating—it is proven now without a doubt that I had made the right decision to tolerate him and pretend to date him. Once he realised gay relationships weren't all that he made them out to be, he stopped his heinous ways and went back to being straight, as all men are supposed to be.

"Women are just accessories, at the end of the day," I state. Good for him that his sexual preferences have finally been fixed.

Quietness toils overhead as Youngjae seems to space out, small hands carefully grasping his mug. It takes a while before he finally speaks once more.

"I loved her," he whispers, eyes not once deviating from the brown stain on the tablecloth.

For some reason, his words seem to bounce off the walls of my skull, along with the last words he left me all those years ago. As expected, Yoo Youngjae truly is a slut. He can breathe the word 'love' to anyone because he cannot differentiate lust from true emotions. 

He told me he loved me. And he left, just like that. Now, here he is, claiming he loves another. Yoo Youngjae is fickle. Yoo Youngjae is nothing but a heinous, horrible slut who knows nothing about what love truly is. Nothing more to be expected from a pillow biter. His words are to be taken for granted because he can say _I love you_ straight to your face yet run off to some other country and marry another, leaving you all alone without a single notice whatsoever.

Well, I guess this is where we both have something in common. I tricked him into thinking I loved him when I actually did not, while Yoo Youngjae does not know the difference between lust and love.

"Love is a pathetic, womanly feeling," I comment, ensconcing my hands underneath the tablecloth. "Why did she file for a divorce?"

This time, his gaze flickers momentarily. As the seconds pan out against his heart-shaped face and the sharp curves of his jawline, he lifts his stare and our eyes latch upon each other.

"She said... it felt like she was married to a woman." His eyelids fall, a poignant, repressed distraught scratching into the fibre of his irises.

It is so saturated I decide not to say a word more. Love is what only vulnerable women and incomplete men know of. They let it be their weakness, understandably for women since they are more susceptible to such flimsy concepts, which explains well why Youngjae seems to emotional over his divorce.

A draft slips in from the window and Youngjae shivers slightly. Even now, he is still prone to the cold with how thin his frame is. After twenty one years, you would have assumed by now he has developed a better resistance to something so harmless. He had me in the past to carry a jacket around for him all the time and I basically spoilt him. I wonder how he has managed all these years without me.

I rise and stride over to the cabinet, gingerly picking up the presents. Returning to my seat, I push them over and observe as Youngjae blinks in surprise.

"There is a jacket in the bigger box. Wear it if you're cold," I nonchalantly suggest. Youngjae's lashes once again flutters like the drop of cherry blossom petals on a spring afternoon, his hands gently placed over the rose bouquet. He uncaps the lowest box and runs a hand over the jacket, cautiously picking up the perfume bottle on the side. He looks over to the bouquet and the smaller box.

"Are these all for me?" He breathes, glancing up at me unsurely and with no elation. I fold my arms, a strange tension crawling its way up to my neck. I expected him to like these things. I was sure a woman like him would be overjoyed to receive such presents.

Perhaps he may misunderstand why I have gotten him so many gifts. A tranny like him would likely mistake my neutral intentions and warp it into some horrid affection. I had merely gotten these gifts for him out of formality.

"It is common etiquette that I get you something," I point out matter-of-factly. His minuscule hands grasp the necklace box and he carefully pries it open, staring at it with his lips parted and a jarring uncertainty seeps into his countenance. He must be misunderstanding why I bought these gifts for him. Of course he would; he so easily believed I loved him back then.

"A... a diamond necklace?" He whispers. "Doesn't this cost a fortune?"

"Barely, considering how much I earn," I correct. "I wasn't sure what to pick so I got whatever my girlfriends usually wanted. You can choose one or take them all back; it doesn't really matter." 

His glassy eyes find mine, rose lips still slightly parted in silence. Why is he staring at me like that?

He must have mistaken my intentions. Expectedly, a tranny like him can only twist reality to fit his own musings. He must be thinking I harbour some feelings for him. Is he insane? We have been apart for twenty one years and I barely remember him. How can he even come close to believing such a ludicrous theory? He doesn't understand how trivial this matter is for me.

Does he think I still like him in such a filthy manner? He must have stretched his delusion from then up till now. I must clarify and show him I have only dated real women, unlike a half-half freak such as himself.

"Thank you," Youngjae wheezes softly, capping back the boxes and not wearing the jacket. He pinches his thumb and after a moment's thought, he asks, "Are you attached?"

"Not at the moment. But I am interested in a female colleague," I express. "I am just not in a rush to get into a relationship, knowing how troublesome women can be."

"I see." Our conversation wilts and my heartbeat is eccentrically pounding into the fabric of my ear drums, tension sunken into my bones. I definitely have to clear things up else this faggot will be all over me, begging for me to take him with how desperate he is.

~~I want to touch him.~~

My rheumatism is acting up. No, the doors in my house—they have no locks. I don't have to worry. I won't be locked in anymore. My mother—she is dead. She cannot lock me in anymore. She will understand that I have only allowed Youngjae into my house out of curiosity. 

Yes, yes. She will understand, surely. She knows I have only dated the most feminine women over the years. I am wholly a full man.

"You asked if I have been to the United States," I start, rasp grating against the air. I rise and promptly head over to the shelf, slotting out a thin photo album and sweeping off the dust. I settle down and hand over the album, his fingers nearly brushing against mine. They thankfully do not.

Thankfully.

"These are the pictures I have taken while I was there with my girlfriends."

"Oh," Youngjae hums, his lips quirking amiably at the ends. The mole on his shoulder peeks out from underneath his loose collar, still marked at the exact same spot I revoltingly had to kiss when we had sex.

Twenty one years.

He... he could have just told me. It wouldn't have hurt so much if he'd just said he was leaving.

"You organised them by state and town instead of date," Youngjae remarks softly, pretty fingers gently thumbing page by page. I nod as he peruses them with a mellow expression, his brows furrowing slightly.

"You've been to Los Angeles," Youngjae hums. "I lived there when I was in America."

"You did?" I return, clacking my nail against the side of my mug. Youngjae nods. His hair looks as soft as it did when we were dating.

"It seems you have a specific taste in girls," he chuckles quietly with a broader yet wry simper, skimming through the photographs. "Your ex-girlfriends look... quite similar to one another."

"I like girls with small faces and large eyes," I state, reclining back into my seat. Youngjae nods absentmindedly as he continues flipping through the pages.

It reminds me of before. When we would study together, his tired eyes flicking past pages and pages of worksheets. I wondered if he thought those were study dates. Now that I think about it, he must have, being a hopeless romantic desperate for love. 

It is getting rather warm in here. My eyes happen to have rested upon his features as I zoned out. His large eyes, his small face, his red lips—he is really so, so disgusting.

~~I want to touch him.~~

I stand when he glimpses up at me from the photo album. "I'll make some more coffee," I state, ripping my stare away from the crumples of his plain white shirt. I step towards him and grasp his mug, my fingers nearly dropping it from how carelessly I'd taken it.

"Oh, thank you." His voice shrivels away as I step into the kitchen, sound of his tenor falling into mere dust. My rheumatism is acting up rather strongly today. I stare down at my twitching fingers and ball my hands into fists, trying to rid the tremors running up my fingers.

Heading to the bathroom, I splash some water onto my face, taking a moment to recoordinate my hands. It seems a few minutes pass as I try to piece together my reflection, making sense of the time.

I want to touch him, just to see if he is real. It seems like the world will simply collapse into linens if I were to spend a few more minutes staring harder at his presence. Collapse into memories, perhaps, because I sometimes cannot avoid the recollections he has left behind with me, as disgusted as I am with that fact.

We are both thirty seven years old now. We were sixteen when we last saw each other.

He could have just told me.

I pace back to the kitchen and grasp the coffee powder, tipping some into both our mugs. Let me make it clear that it was not much of a big deal. I am understandably angry with how he left without bothering to tell me, as I wasted so much effort on a twink like him. I would much rather have spent our months together bullying him like I always have if I knew all that pretense would amount to nothing. 

Pouring in the hot water, I stir both of the mugs, hearing nothing but quietness from the living room. Perhaps if I walked out right now, I would find the opposite seat empty and realise that I have been having a conversation with myself all this time. 

~~I _need_ to touch him.~~

I step out of the kitchen with the two mugs in my hands. Youngjae is standing by the shelves and I place down the mugs, walking towards him and-

His- his photo album- 

He's not supposed to  _look_ at that-

I roughly rip the thick book out of his hands, Youngjae stumbling back in shock from the force. Our hands brush and he stares up at me in a concoction of confoundment and fear. The skin over my fingers which he touched burns with a repulsive sting and I-

"I didn't give you permission to look at this," I breathe shudderingly through my teeth, eyes wide and livid. He's not supposed to see this. Everything—he's not  _supposed_ to see this. These photos- I just kept them for no reason. They don't mean anything. My mother knows I only kept them because I had no choice. Photos of him curled up in the sheets, photos of him after we've kissed, photos of him shrouded in my jacket- he has seen the duplicates of each and every one of them-

"I'm- I'm sorry-" He timidly takes a step back, foot brushing against the notebook paper that had slipped from the photo album. That's- I- I can explain what the list is for—because I like America so much, I- I tend to jot down the places I've been to and how many times I've visited so I won't have to go there again because he's not there- no, I mean-

 _"I didn't give you permission to look at this!"_  I scream, reverberations of my voice banging deafeningly against the floorboards. He whimpers instantly in fright and cowers, lowering his head with his hands shielding his face. It's... It's almost a split image of whenever I yelled at him when we were dating and he would tear up, shivering feebly.

He's... he's real.

I'm not sure why this is happening. There's a wet warmth trickling down my face. It must be because of the weather. My arthritis is acting up. I am having allergies. I.....

He lowers his hands meekly and he gazes up at me, lips parting softly. I know, he will surely misunderstand them to be tears. Of course, he misunderstands everything between us. The words I've said to him, saying I love him, saying he's pretty, saying I only ever dated him because I wanted to keep him in check... 

It's been twenty one years. Why did he suddenly come to me? Why only now, after two decades?

Did he miss me? Or did he just leave all those years ago without a second thought? Is that why he could not even be bothered to tell me?

I- I don't know why I'm crying. What more, in front of this putrid, disgusting homosexual. I... I hope my mother forgives me.

Youngjae simply stares, not a shred of mercy within him. His large, doe eyes, his blossomed, scarlet cheeks, his soft, plump lips—I have lived with the smithereens of my heart punctured into my guts for these two decades, just waiting to see him again.

I was so worried he may have been hurt and I would not be there to protect him. There were so many days I could not help but stop in my work because I somehow tormented myself with the possibility he could be out there suffering and I would be helpless since I knew not where he was.

How could he have left me and come back only after twenty one years? I've... I've waited and prayed every single time I got on a plane that I would just be able to catch a glimpse of him, even if he was holding another man's hand. At seventeen, I wandered for the first time around San Francisco, all alone, because he told me he wanted to one day visit Golden Gate Bridge with me. Walking till my feet blistered, just hoping I would see black tresses and rose lips, clinging onto the remnant of my plane ticket I starved and worked the midnight shift for.

I.....

His small, pale hands reach up and it almost seems like he would disperse into dust with how his fingers are trembling. His thumbs graze my cheeks and I let out a shaking breath, staring down at his disgusting, disgusting eyes. His soft skin, I... I haven't felt it in so, so long.

"I'm sorry," he whispers in such a soft breath that even the wind would have trouble hearing.

What is he sorry for? For taking the photo album he was never supposed to see, those I told my girlfriends was of my best friend who left me behind two decades ago? Or for leaving me so cruelly that I have never been able to forget him, even after so many years?

He doesn't know how terrifying silence is. He doesn't know how I put myself through hours and hours of it because I wanted to catch even just the fibre of his breath in that desolate corridor.

"You... you just left," I croak, unable to stop myself. I'm nothing but another disgusting,  _disgusting_ faggot like my "father" that my mother suffered because of.

He just left me. He doesn't know how many times I cried till it felt like my eyes would bleed, all for him. He doesn't know how much it hurts. Every single day, I would wait till midnight and sometimes fall asleep outside his doorstep, and wake up only to cry harder than the day before. There were so many times I ran like a mad man through the crowd because I thought I saw him, only to have my heart drop into my stomach when I realised it was not him. All because he took my heart and tore it apart by leaving me behind without a single word.

"I waited—I waited for so long for you to come back," I churn out, rasp breaking through every syllable. "I... I waited every single day outside your house after you left because I thought maybe, just maybe... you'd come back."

"I'm sorry," he breathes in that disgustingly frail voice of his, those I've tried so hard not to forget as the years went by. He's sorry? What is he sorry for, when I was the one who put him through all that torture for years? Why would he come back to see me when I know I deserve every nightmare where he was killed and I found the bloody knife in my hands?

Why... why did he say he loved me all those years back when I raped him and beat him? I said he was the filthiest thing to ever walk the earth but... I was the one who put those blue-blacks on a person so white. I never deserved him. Yet, I've only ever wished for the same thing my entire life—that I would get to see him again. I spent my life like an utter fool just for him. Every year, I would check the phone book and make calls asking for _Yoo Youngjae_ who happened to return from America. I had newspapers imported from America just so I could check the orbituaries with my hands pathetically shaking. Every single night, I'd childishly wait for eleven-eleven because I wanted to see him so, so badly I would rip every limb from myself just to see him from afar.

I... All I wanted...

"You said you loved me." Every petulant protest burns another candle into my back, searing itself along with the gentle strokes Youngjae would generously give whenever we snuck out to meet. He was the one who took care of me when I cried at the cane strokes that tore into my flesh and held my hand when I was too afraid to go home. He was the one who pried away the remants of dried candle wax on my skin and shed tears for me, his button nose a rose red because seeing me hurt pained him. And I... I horribly did all those things to him.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs feebly, his lashes fluttering slowly as his hands fall to my shoulders. It has been twenty one years but he is still so small, so fragile, so... so beautiful. Even if God gave me all the time in the world, I would never, in a single eternity, spend enough time with him.

His soft hands dash away the streaks of tears down my jaw. Halting for a moment, his misty eyes shimmering with the most cherished glitter I have ever seen, he lets out a frail breath and tiptoes.

His lips are on mine.

He- he is kissing me...

His soft lips, his plump lips, red like apples, roses, blood...

Even in my dreams... my mind has never been kind enough to draw out such a scenario because even it knows I am far from deserving. His soft, soft lips, those I loved with every inch of my heart since the day I knew he made my heart race, this sweet taste which every other person has paled in comparison to—how can he be kissing me now when he threw me aside all those decades ago? Am I just a toy to him?

He is everything I wish I wasn't drawn to. He is my biggest regret and heartbreak for the past twenty one years, and if I could, I would rather we die from asphyxiation than to be parted from him again.

I hold his hips and delve my tongue into his mouth, inhaling him deep as the tears keep dripping down my cheeks. He weakly gasps for breath and holds me closer. I have missed this so much I swore on several nights God could puncture my lungs again and again if it meant I would even be able to catch a glimpse of his shadow. God could slit my throat and have me live but I would still not mind. I have missed him so much I would have given up my life in the most excruciating way possible so he could lead a peaceful one.

It has been so long since I have held him. His soft flesh, his lovely scent, everything about Yoo Youngjae...

He is not a dream. He is real, before me, after so, so long. After all those years where I knew he left me without a word because I have only tormented him and made his life a living hell.

"I'm... I'm so sorry," I weep over and over again, begging him for forgiveness for every inhumane thing I have done to him twenty one years ago. All the horrid things I have done, touching him despite his pleas for me to stop, taking his virginity by force and letting him live with the betrayal as his best friend, the one who promised to protect him forever, was the one who broke him into pieces-

"It's okay," he placates in that autumnal voice I have only heard in my hallucinations. How can he be so forgiving towards me? I deserve the twenty-one years I cried in my sleep and felt so much pain I thought it was worse than death. 

If only my mother had let me love him. If only my mother had told me it was okay to give my heart to this boy who was my everything at thirteen years old, we could have been happier. We could have been together for the past two decades, fulfilling our promises of staying friends forever.

All convulsing heartbeats, fervent fingers, collapse of breaths. Youngjae winds up against my sheets, whimpering shakily as I suck on his brittle, paper-like skin. Skin white like snow in the chilling winters where I teared up at the thought of him starving, lips red like burnt blood I clawed from him decades ago, eyes shimmering with the shards of a mirror that never reflected how horrible of a monster I was. Every centimetre of him, every of his sweet exhales as he comes undone, every single piece of Yoo Youngjae has always driven me to a tragic insanity my mother loathed.

He is so beautiful. He is so, so beautiful.

He clutches onto me when I slowly push into him, his pinkish cheeks now blooming with blood red and his lower lip trembling in the most ethereal, precious manner. He whispers for me to move, clenching around me shyly, and I gently thrust into his thin frame. His slender fingers rest on my neck and he arches himself off the bed, moans quivering into our deep kiss. His lips are prettily bruised, his precious eyes well up with a trace of tears and his fingers are trembling so beautifully. And as we climax, he whispers the words I have been waiting to hear for two decades.

_I love you._

If only he was a girl, I would have been able to say all those years ago that he was never disgusting in my eyes. I would have been able to say that he has undoubtedly always been the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my entire life—and I simply could not bring myself to confess that those decades back.

If only he was a girl... I would have been able to say that I loved Yoo Youngjae twenty one years ago. That I always have, and always will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has been two months since I last saw Youngjae.

He committed suicide on the same day we met after twenty one years and made love.

I found him in my bathtub after I awoke.

He was soaking in bleach and had overdosed on his sleeping pills.

He left me a letter, this time that he left.

He thanked me for loving him still even though he was a freak, as no one else did.

His parents had thrown him out of the house as they caught him crossdressing.

He said he had been planning to end his life for a while now, after his marriage ended.

He told me I was right; nobody would love him for he was too little of a man yet not enough of a woman.

He had decided to visit because he wanted to see his childhood best friend one last time, for during the years we were friends, I made his life brighter.

He apologised for committing suicide in my home but he was afraid that no one would ever find his body.

He thanked me again for loving him, and said he was sorry for leaving all those years ago.

He said he would remember me in his afterlife, especially of us when we were much younger—when we were still best friends and knew nothing of what was to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is it cold, Youngjae? With winter here, it must be, what with all this snow surrounding you. Unfortunately, the snow has been very heavy this week.

I am here to visit you again. I brought the jacket I bought for you. I never got a chance to see you wear it, so I hope maybe it will be of use to you now. I regret not putting you in warmer clothes before they buried you.

How are you doing? I hope you are living well. This year, the winter has been especially long. It rains a lot. You may worry that the soil may run but if you can see me from above, you will know that I am always here every day, so do not worry. I always bring an umbrella so your marker does not get wet.

It took me twenty one years to see you again, but I still have not learnt how to not miss you. I still have not learnt how to not cry when I think about you. I still have not learnt how to live without you.

I am wearing our infinity ring from when we were sixteen. You are wearing the infinity necklace I bought for you. I hope you like it. It makes me a little sad that I never got to know if you liked it or not, else, I would buy something nicer for you. I never told you this but I really loved it whenever you wore our infinity ring. It made me feel like at that point in time, we belonged to each other. We were engaged; we were married. It was a dream that never materialised but seeing you wear the ring I bought for you has already made me unbelievably happy.

You said you would not be able to go to heaven in your letter to me, as you have sinned many times in your life. I asked a priest at the catholic church nearby today and he told me of this place called purgatory, where people who repent are purified so they can reach heaven. I think you must have already went there and made it to heaven. I hope you have. I hope you are happy now.

I hope I can go to purgatory as well, so I will be able to ascend to heaven and see you. It would be nice if I could hold your hand again. I often regret never holding it long enough. I regret many things, and they are all about you, Youngjae.

I miss you. I hope we can start anew in the afterlife and you will only remember me when I was thirteen and we were still friends. We can visit Busan together like we agreed on, and visit the beaches there, if heaven works the same.

I do not want to spoil the surprise but you know how I am. I could never keep secrets when we were younger and I still cannot.

I am planning to join you soon. If things go smoothly, we can see each other even earlier. I hope purgatory does not take too much time. I want to see you sooner.

I am sorry that there will be no one left to take care of your grave but I have saved the space beside you so you will not be alone beneath the soil. It must be so scary for your body to be all alone underneath the ground. I have only ever accompanied you above the soil but this time, I will join you underground. I am sorry I didn't do this earlier; I could not bear to leave your body alone and I did not want to leave you when I had finally found you after two decades.

Let's be together again, Youngjae. I am sorry we were apart for so many years. I am sorry I made us strangers. You must have been so afraid. I still remember the many times you waited hours for my class to end so we could eat lunch together. You never liked being alone as your parents rarely had time for you. It was one of the reasons we grew so close, after all. You took comfort in my presence and I loved you who cried when I did.

Things will be different now. I will be in heaven to accompany you soon. You do not have to worry.

I love you, Youngjae. We will meet in a better place, where I can hold your hand without being afraid of the candle wax.


End file.
